


Two princes who adore you

by persuna



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: (only sort of on the sex work), Alternate Universe, Coincidences, Insecurity, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Multi, Pining, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persuna/pseuds/persuna
Summary: Jon Lovett, semi-professional sexuality crisis catalyst.(a post/non-politics AU)





	Two princes who adore you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/gifts).



> Celli, you probably can't tell, but I truly did conceive of this while thinking hard about your prompts. It uh, just happens to be only tangentially related to them? I am hanging the fic on "alternate universes of any flavour" and, with a warning that is very light on porn, crossing my fingers that you like it anyway!
> 
> Title from the 90s classic [Two Princes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wsdy_rct6uo) by Spin Doctors.

"Hi there,” Lovett drawled. He paused, giving the person on the other end of the line a chance to set the tone if they wanted to. When they didn’t say anything he added, “What can I do for you today?”, trying to sound playful and accommodating, rather than impatient.

"There's something I've always thought about, but I've never. I've never told anyone about it,” stuttered the caller.

An ominous beginning. But, Lovett reminded himself, you couldn’t really judge a caller by their initial mood. Some people were so nervous to tell you they fantasised about being spanked it was like they didn’t realise they’d rung a phone sex line in a world where ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ had spent a hundred weeks on the NYT bestseller list. Others launched right into asking you to pretend that they were a Thanksgiving turkey you were cooking and eating like that shit was at all explicable and Lovett didn’t need a minute to google how to cook a turkey.

"That's okay." He hoped it was okay. "What better time to give it a shot than right now?"

"It's kind of unusual.”

"We're all unusual in our own ways.”

"I think it stems from my childhood."

Oh no, here we go. "Uh huh,” Lovett said out loud, but of its own volition, his hand shifted closer to the button that would disconnect the call. 

"I've always had a thing for. For Rush Limbaugh."

At this point, Lovett had heard enough unusual requests that he might have taken this in his stride, but the stifled giggle on the other end of the phone rather gave the game away. He rolled his eyes. Prank caller money was still accepted by all major retailers, but Lovett didn’t enjoy being the butt of the joke.

"Could you do an impression of him?" the misguided youth on the other end of the phone asked.

If these teenagers thought that was the thing that was going to embarrass him, they were young and naive indeed. “Friends!" he said, trying to constrict his throat to get that air-being-forced-from-a-balloon quality into his voice. It was rough, as impressions go, but he successfully startled a laugh that was with him, not at him, out of the other end of the phone. “Liberal elites continue to mock the ordinary man, not just in popular culture, but in his place of work. Let me ask you a question. When. Will. These. Teenagers. Learn.” He thumped his hand on his desk for emphasis. 

Sadly, the caller hung up before Lovett could even work a reference to fentanyl in. While he waited for another customer, Lovett turned his attention back to his laptop. He’d spend five minutes on Twitter, and then he was absolutely going to write at least two pages for his moving, hilarious, as yet untitled 'The Office' meets 'The Good Wife' dramedy.

*

It turned out to be a slow night. On the off chance that he might pick up another caller, even though things tended to tail off from about three am, Lovett brushed his teeth with his bluetooth headset on. He got through the full dentist-recommended two minutes with no interruptions, which was probably a good thing. Not that having a full mouth couldn't have worked, but it was quite an assertive opening move. Lovett signed himself out of the service feeling, as he did increasingly often, vaguely disgruntled. He eased Pundit over from where she was asleep in the middle of his bed, and slid under what she allowed him of the covers.

Part of it was simple job dissatisfaction. Three callers in a row had complained about his chat line persona. He had gotten into a heated discussion with one of them as to whether or not he was being "deliberately unsexy", a critique Lovett felt owed as much to the caller's choice of topic as it did to his performance as the guy’s harried secretary. He had clearly gone too hard for realism, but schedule conflicts and workplace harassment were no joke. Another had accused him of making fun of him. He had been laughing a little, but that Pundit had happened to bark during the set up to the guy’s fantasy of being dragged to a cave and cared for by an alpha wolf was too perfect. The third had just told him he sucked and hung up before they hit the three minute mark where Lovett got any money. Then there had been the prank caller who he hoped against fucking hope wasn't in fact a teenage boy. It was marginally less bleak to imagine a full grown man making a crank call than it was to contemplate having momentarily used his sex voice on some fourteen year old.

The other part of his mood—the ridiculous, embarrassing part—was that Lovett was disappointed in himself. At one point, he had actually thought he'd be better at this. He had dirty thoughts. A normal, healthy number of dirty thoughts. He knew what he was doing gay sex wise. He was a good writer who could put his meaning across concisely and elegantly, and speak in other people's voices, or at least he fucking hoped he was. He loved to pick up a conversational tangent and run with it, spin some off-hand reference into a whole damn epic, with backstory and characters and shit. He made the smutty joke that everyone blushed at sometimes, and he enjoyed doing it. He was even a decent enough actor, for this low bar at least. The whole sex chat thing seemed like it would be right in his wheelhouse, at least until he made it through the surprisingly long time period that he was discovering lay between quitting work as a lawyer to pursue his writing dreams full time, and achieving his writing dreams in any way that even tangentially involved financial compensation.

So sure, he wasn't longing to hear the gross noises that other people's bodies made, but he’d thought he would be overcoming the icky parts of it to let his natural talents for innuendo and improv shine. As it turned out, people didn't want him to try to be funny, and that was his natural impulse in most situations. People were into weird stuff. Not necessarily bad stuff, but _surprising_ stuff, and he couldn't always keep the surprise—not judgement, or mostly not judgement—out of his tone, or pick up the thing that was hot about it. When it wasn't, again, let's say surprising, it was the same old boring basic shit over and over again, and people got confused when he tried to spice it up a bit. There was a difference, Lovett now knew, between coming out with a funny, flirty comment that made your friends blush, and hearing filth coming from other people's mouths. And, not to be crude, but there was a lot of squelching. He didn't love the squelching. He tried very hard not to think about the squelching.

It wasn’t all bad: it was a window into an little understood aspect of humanity that he was sure would come in handy for his art any day now; it was sometimes kind of funny, and sometimes even, in a we’re-all-weirdos-together-deep-down kind of way, moving; it let him set his own hours and—theoretically at least—spend time writing between calls. As long as he got customers, and it wasn't traumatising, it was a good way to make some money. Most people didn't need that much from him, they came already equipped with their own fantasy and wanted someone there to hear it, or wanted the same porn patter that he became inured to a couple of days in.

If he was disappointed with himself for not living up to his personal expectations about how good he'd be at something, then that fit right in with the narrative of his life so far—stand-up, politics, law, writing, and now apparently phone sex—Jon Lovett didn’t quite have the passion to excel. At least on this occasion he was mediocre at a job he didn’t care about.

*

"Hi, um, I called yesterday." Another sheepish one, great. Lovett minimised his browser, so his mind wouldn’t wander, then the blank word document beneath it, so he wouldn’t feel guilty, and set Pundit down on the floor. Even if she couldn't understand what he was saying, it was too weird having her actually sitting on his lap during work calls. She huffed, understandably confused by the capricious whims of his schedule, and trotted out into the kitchen.

"Always happy to welcome back a return customer," said Lovett, brightly. He hoped it wasn’t the balloon guy. He was fresh out of balloons. “Er, can you remind me what we talked about?"

"Rush Limbaugh." At least he had the good grace to sound embarrassed. Before Lovett could think of something cutting to say, the caller added, "I wanted to apologise. I didn't mean to make fun of you. I was a bit drunk, and I was trying to prove to someone that crank calls were fun, and I think I actually proved the opposite.”

Well this was a rare first. No one had ever considered Lovett’s workplace dignity before, let alone actually rung up and paid to apologise to him. Was this a submission thing? Was he going to be expected to issue some kind of punishment? Before anything like that could happen, Lovett had to establish something. “Level with me,” he said. “Are you, or are you not, fifteen?"

"What?” whoever it was had the temerity to sound offended. “Of course I’m not fifteen.”

"Sixteen? Only children make crank calls, and this is a legal adults only activity, is what I’m getting at."

"I'm well over eighteen, I promise."

"So you're not running up your parents’ phone bill, or warping your sexual development forever?”

“I pay my own bills.” He didn’t address the second concern, but if he was over eighteen, Lovett conceded that his sexual development was his own look out.

"Good, then to make it up to me, you can talk to me for a while. Apparently my calls are some of the shortest in the sweatbox."

"You surprise me,” the caller said, tone dry. The slight seemed unnecessary in light of the fact that Lovett had yet to be asked to perform any genuine sex talk for him, but minutes were minutes, and household bills were numerous and never-ending. Lovett decided to let it slide when the caller kept the conversation flowing by asking, “Are you in a sweatbox?"

"Only figuratively.” Lovett looked round his tiny bedroom, and accidentally told the truth. “I’m at home."

"That's convenient." He didn't say anything else. An awkward silence threatened to accumulate.

"So what should I call you?" asked Lovett. In his experience, his callers found ‘what’s your name’ to be a bit confrontational.

"Um.” There was the usual two second pause that people needed to think of a name that wasn’t their own. “Tommy.”

“Tommy?” What full grown man went by Tommy? “I don’t do ageplay.”

“I’m… not asking you to?”

“So you're telling me, in all truth and innocence, that of all the pseudonyms in the world, you are going for a child’s nickname? You sound ridiculous.”

Luckily, Tommy, as he apparently wished to be called, found this funny rather than offensive, and his deep laugh did more to convince Lovett that he was an adult than anything else so far. “Says Joe America?” Tommy asked when he recovered. Which was fair. Lovett reconsidered his stage name on a daily basis.

"Hey, it goes with the American flag thong that is all I’m wearing right now.”

“That seems more disrespectful than hot,” said Tommy, sailing right past the freely offered, only slightly tongue in cheek segue into sex talk.

"I can take it off if that would show greater respect for the troops.” Lovett figured Tommy would either take the bait, or hang up. Instead, he laughed again, even harder than the reply deserved.

“Okay, okay, I give.” Still not hanging up, Tommy said, “So, did you see the game?"

"The sports game?” There were lines that Lovett would not cross to keep someone on the phone, and discussing sports was one of them. “I can do a generic locker room fantasy," he said, "but that's the extent of my knowledge on the subject.”

Once again, Tommy didn’t pursue the locker room path, or hang up. Instead he asked if Lovett had read any good books lately, and by the time Lovett had finished his dissection of ‘This Town’, ten minutes had gone by without even a hint of innuendo. In the end, they talked for twenty four very expensive minutes, no one got off, and Tommy seemed to leave the call feeling happy. It was mystifying.

*

A week or so later, Lovett was washing his hands in the bathroom, wondering if it was possible to over moisturise your skin. One under discussed aspect of this job was how many orgasms people expected you to have. Even if you were into one sided anonymous phone sex, you'd need medical assistance to keep up with the demand, and since Lovett rarely felt the desire to participate for real, he’d had to get good at faking it. His main technique involved enthusiastically rubbing lotion between his hands, and for a while they had been very soft, but now it seemed like they were getting addicted to it. Maybe he should get some gloves? 

The call came through as he was drying his hands, a voice he was already starting to recognise. "Hey, so I had a question. It's Tommy by the way.”

"Rush Limbaugh and small talk, I remember," said Lovett. "What'll it be today? Do you want to move on to reviewing our favourite television programmes?"

“Are you gay?" Tommy's usually smooth voice cracked, just a little, like he was nervous.

"Yes," said Lovett, guarded.

"How… how did you know?"

"I compulsively called a gay sex phone line."

He could hear Tommy swallow on the other end of the phone. "Fair hit."

Tommy’s acceptance of Lovett’s deflection made him reconsider the flippant response. “Serious answer?” he asked, “11th grade is when I knew it explicitly, but it wasn’t like it was a surprise. That was just when I formulated it into concrete knowledge about myself.”

“Oh,” said Tommy.

Since starting this, Lovett had encountered his fair share of nominally straight men feeling freaked out about the fact they were calling a gay sex line. He normally stuck to reassurances that this didn’t define them, and tried to move on. Anything more delicate than that seemed beyond his purview. But Tommy seemed nice, and sounded sad, and technically he was being paid so, sure. Why not talk him through his sexuality crisis? “Are _you_ gay?"

"No,” said Tommy with certainty. But then, as ever, came the prevarication. “I mean, I've dated women. I like women. But there have been men too."

“The kids call that bisexual nowadays."

"I've never dated a guy though. It's only ever been casual hook ups."

"That's okay. There aren't any minimum requirements. Is it lack of opportunity, or lack of desire?"

“I don’t know. Both? I don't want to say that most guys aren't worth the effort that it would take to date them,” Lovett winced, "but it never seems like the right time to have to get into it.” Tommy paused. “Sorry, that sounds really shitty when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't sound unshitty." But then, Lovett had never felt like he had options on who he wanted to be with, and he didn't know this guy's life. Maybe he lived in Alabama. Maybe his family would disown him. "Does most mean not all?"

Tommy didn’t answer right away. “There's one guy,” he said eventually. “But he's one of my best friends, and he's definitely straight, so it's a bad idea from start to finish. That's. We actually had lunch today, which is why I'm-Maybe why I'm, I don't know, thinking about this again."

"Ah yes," said Lovett, with a surge of genuine sympathy. "The one-sided crush on a straight friend. A barbaric ritual that so many must endure, even in these more enlightened times." To this day Lovett could not allow his thoughts to stray too close to the memory of his deeply embarrassing high school infatuation on his ex-friend Brian. He was afraid of what he might remember.

"Does it still count as crush after a decade or so?"

"Ouch. No, you my friend might have graduated to unrequited love. Mazel tov."

“Have you got any advice on how to get over that?”

“Wisdom of that calibre will cost you more than $4 a minute,” said Lovett, before he gave it a go anyway. “Look, I don't really know you, and I don’t know your situation, but you seem like a decent person, and it definitely seems like this is bothering you, or I assume you wouldn’t be talking to some random gay guy you prank called about it. If you don't want to date men then that's fine, you do you. But if you do, and the only thing holding you back is fear of what other people think, I don't know, maybe you want to think about if that's who you are.” It was not the kind of ‘yes, and…’ thing that Lovett normally said to his callers, and he more than half expected Tommy to hang up on him. He didn’t though. He stayed on the line, breathing evenly, as if he was thinking it over. “I’m not saying you have to confess all to some frat brother that you’re certain is not going to appreciate it."

"He's not my _frat brother_ ," said Tommy, somehow audibly rolling his eyes, “we both worked for. For the same person. And then we worked together. As adults.”

"Whatever. The point is, if you decide something isn’t out of bounds, you might be surprised at the opportunities that come your way. Not with the ex-colleague necessarily, but out there in the world.” It was one of the floofiest things Lovett had ever said, and he half expected a derisive laugh.

Instead, Tommy said, “You should be charging more than $4 a minute,” voice warm like he meant it.

“If I need any testimonials I’ll let you know.”

Once again, their phone called ended without anyone getting off, but this time Lovett felt like he'd actually been helpful, which was a much more wholesome sense of achievement than he usually got.

*

"So how is the sex work going?" asked Erin, apropos of nothing.

"Shut up," said Lovett, both as an instinctive retort to anything Erin said in that particular innocent tone, and because he truly did want her to shut up. A crowded coffee shop was not the venue for discussing his top secret sex-adjacent work. "It's more sex-adjacent."

"Come on." Erin wheedled. "I'm bored, and I want you to entertain me with stories about how gross men are, and how lucky I am to be sharing my life with a cat." It was also less depressing than asking him about his writing career, which Erin was kind enough not to say.

"Well, one guy did ask me do a Rush Limbaugh impression." Erin's expression of utter horror was worth the lie of omission, but once he'd stopped laughing, Lovett explained more fully. He didn't want to be responsible for her entirely giving up on humanity. “Don’t worry, that turned out to be a prank”.

"Thank god," she said, fervently. "Not thank god that some bored teenager is crank calling hardworking members of the sex industry-"

"I'm not in the-"

"-but I hope we can both agree that the world is better off without a confirmed Limbaugh-phile. And it’s vaguely heartening that the old traditions continue amongst the bored youth of today. I thought it was all Snapchat nudes and Ask.fm bullying nowadays.”

"He wasn't so bad." Lovett felt unaccountably defensive of Tommy.

"Rush Limbaugh?"

"No, the crank caller." When Erin gave him a sceptical look, instead of moving on, he protested, as if the dignity of a near complete stranger whose real name he didn’t even know being impugned mattered. "No really, he's actually pretty cool." Fuck, he'd already said too much. He didn't think he'd ever complimented one of his callers before. He knew the only mitigation was not to say anything else, but he was already taking the breath to keep talking. It was like the moment between tripping and hitting the ground when it really seemed like you should be able to stop yourself from falling, but you couldn't escape the deathless grip of gravity. “He called back to apologise,” he explained, counterproductively, “and we’ve talked a few times since then, and he’s always nice."

Under Erin's evaluating gaze, Lovett could feel himself becoming squirmier and more suspicious looking. People who knew you well were the worst.

"Are you flirting with underage crank callers?" she asked.

"He's an adult."

"But you are flirting with him?"

Damn, that had been a trick. She was wily. Thank fuck she'd never had any formal legal training. "That is, as you remind me constantly, my job."

“Are you, you know, having phone sex with him?"

"Not. Not really." Which for some reason felt much damning than the alternative.

"But you're still talking." Erin's incredulous tone told Lovett she too thought this was much more strange.

"Sometimes," said Lovett, restricting himself to brief answers, as he'd have advised anyone under cross examination to do. 

"So you're what, making small talk?"

"You know I can't make small talk."

"That's what makes this so inexplicable!"

"I don't know what we're talking about. Game of Thrones. Politics. Why they keep the razors locked up at the drugstore. Coming to terms with his bisexuality. You know, the usual stuff."

“So you’re his therapist?”

"Don't be melodramatic. I'm not writing him prescriptions. I'm sharing the bounty of my extensive experience as a non-heterosexual person with him in a safe, anonymous environment.”

"Jon.” The sight of Erin's face, polished and put together, set in serious, sincere concern, made Lovett's stomach drop. The pile of things that she might want to chide him for, or worse, attempt to counsel him on, was so high and teetering that even looking at might cause it to collapse. "I'm not attacking you, I'm worried that you're investing too much in this. I barely see you outside of this standing appointment, and apparently I'm one of the lucky ones. Spencer says he hasn't seen you in weeks, and you don't even go to game night any more. You don't seem to be dating. I don't think that getting emotionally attached to some random, lonely _client_ who has to pay a stranger to talk to him is going to help."

"I'm not getting emotionally attached," said Lovett, knowing that wasn’t entirely truthful. "It helps with the bills, and in this one case, I don't even have to pretend that I'm interested in hearing about his dick, so, everyone's a winner."

He had no defence against the rest of Erin's speech; he had been avoiding most of his friends, too scared of simple questions that they might ask him such as, how is the extended sabbatical going? Or, what sort of interest have you gotten in that script? Or the dreaded, so what are you doing for money anyway? If any of them asked him if he was seeing anyone it was fifty fifty whether he'd burst into incoherent tears, or tell them the truth: that his multiple short-term, long-distance relationships with anonymous men across the continent were not just emotionally and sexually unsatisfying, but that they had drained him of most of his desire to seek romance with anyone.

Thankfully, Lovett didn't have to get into any of his poor life choices in detail, because Erin looked over his shoulder and said, "Hey, it's your Hot Professor." In the end, she was a good friend who had his back.

"He's not _my_ Hot Professor." Nonetheless, Lovett shifted his chair so he could see the counter and properly appreciate one of the dwindling number of good things left in his life.

"Right. A face that beautiful shouldn't be owned by one person. It should be shared with the world."

That Lovett and Erin's weekly afternoon catch up so often coincided with Hot Professor's afternoon coffee trip was happenstance, not design. Erin's PhD work brought her to campus, and Lovett's life was empty of concrete commitments and responsibilities, so he came to her. This made Lovett feel marginally better about his disappointment on the occasions when Hot Professor didn't appear to be ogled, and the small but not insignificant role that the ogling opportunity played in him keeping his friend date.

Hot Professor smiled at the barista, handing his money over with long, graceful fingers. Lovett felt a deep pang of empathy with every student who was trying to learn something in class, but instead kept accidentally imagining how their professor would look at their beach wedding in one of those billowy see-through tunics with a low cut neck.

They maintained a respectful silence until Hot Professor had received his coffee and left the building, with a friendly wave to the staff, because he also seemed like a nice guy. "On a scale of one to ten, how creepy are we?" asked Lovett.

"Eight point five," said Erin, sipping her tea.

*

The next week, Tommy called three times. He tended to call late, which wasn't unusual. A lot of people called in the middle of the night, when reality seemed less present, or when they'd given lying in bed a few hours to work and it hadn't, or when their partner was asleep. Lovett wondered what it was for Tommy. Did he have a partner sleeping peacefully in the next room while he called a sex line and kept it strictly PG? Lovett kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and the conversation to turn to sex, initially with resignation, but eventually with something more like anticipation. Perhaps delayed gratification was Tommy's kink, in which case his plan was working perfectly. In the meantime, he gave no hint of any desires beyond discussing his life with Lovett—without any identifying information, but in surprising emotional detail—and soliciting his opinion on a vast range of topics as if he respected it.

“I feel like I’m surrounded by people I can’t be myself with,” he said one night, after Lovett made yet another reference to Tommy's inexplicable obsession with expensive platonic conversation. Lovett was nothing if not an inveterate poker of bears and healing wounds. “I don’t feel that way with you.”

“Maybe you need better friends.”

“Incorrect, my friends are great. But that does me no good, because I never see them. I spend almost all my waking hours at work, where I am increasingly convinced that everyone else is a psychopath, and the only reason they haven't devoured me is that I've been passing for one too."

"Are you a lawyer?" Even though lawyer jokes barely counted as humour in the 21st century, Tommy snorted. It was on the tip of Lovett's tongue to tell Tommy something about his own brief, grinding, empty stint in law, but he bit it back. Tommy hadn't given him any specifics, because the allure of this was anonymity and the freedom to vent without reciprocation that paying for a conversation gave. He'd only fuck that up if he got too personal.

"I miss my old job," Tommy continued. "Which is ironic, because when I was doing that I felt like there were so many self-involved incompetents only there to further their own interests under the cover of trying to help people that the good people couldn't get anything done, and that the system was too jammed up and broken to be worth breaking my back on for another few years.” There was the sound of fabric shifting on the other end of the phone. Lovett wondered if Tommy was lying in bed as well. "With a bit more perspective I think I probably just needed a holiday, not a career change." He sighed, tired and self-deprecating, if a gust of air could be that meaningful. "Progress was slow, but at least making the world a better place was part of our stated mission."

"The common denominator that I see is you feeling paranoid and judgemental of your colleagues," said Lovett, because that all hit a bit close to home. To soften the sting he added, “I’d say you should do something about it, but I’m not really in a position to be judging anyone’s career.”

“Hey, you’re kind of doing good for people. Or making them feel good at least.”

“I think you overestimate the effect that my quips and witty repartee have on most people, but thanks."

“You’ve helped me," Tommy insisted. "Doing what you do.”

“This isn’t ‘what I do’,” said Lovett, uncomfortable. He felt, for some reason, like it was very important that Tommy know he wasn’t sitting in his room all day taking calls from the globe’s horny men. Or that, while technically that might be what he was doing, it was very much in service to a less seedy long-term goal. “Or not all I do. This is an interim, bill paying gig while I pursue my dreams of being a writer.”

“Oh, cool. I’m not going to end up in an article about old-fashioned telephone perverts, am I?" asked Tommy.

"Maybe if you let me lure you into anything perverted you might." Which kind of made it seem like Lovett was actually trying to honeytrap people into some kind of long game blackmail scheme, or planning an embarrassing expose. "Don't worry, I take your privacy very seriously, and nothing you've said warrants more than a passing mention that many people out there are simply looking for a human connection."

"Ah, you've seen through to the heart of me," said Tommy. "How awkward. What kind of things are you working on then?"

Before he knew it, Lovett was sharing the outline of his shitty legal dramedy with Tommy, and Tommy was being helpful. After two insightful comments about character motivations and discovering that one joke failed to pass even Tommy's low laughter bar, Lovett realised he should be writing this down.

"If I ever make it and this thing goes into production, now you're the one who can break the scandalous gossip about how I financed it," said Lovett, when Tommy finally said he should try and get some sleep, and Lovett was well into his third page of notes.

"Mutually assured destruction is a surprisingly stable way to live. I learned that”—Tommy paused, like he'd caught himself about to make a mistake—“from 'The Hunt for Red October'."

"I don't think you properly absorbed the message of that movie."

After they hung up, Lovett stayed awake, trying to stay balanced on the crest of the inspiration that their conversation had given him. For the first time in, god, a period the length of which he did not care to contemplate, the shape of the story was palpable, something that he might be able to pin down if he worked on it, rather than a yawning void. By the time exhaustion compelled him to stop, sunlight was seeping in through his curtains, and he had produced an unprecedented nine pages of content.

*

One good night of flow did not, sadly, entirely dissolve Lovett's writer's block. But he rode the high of having actually created something for several weeks, kept aloft by Tommy's increasingly regular calls. Without the justification that it seemed to be helping his creative process, Lovett might have called the degree to which he looked forward to talking to Tommy—a man whose real name, location, face and situation in life remained a complete mystery to him, and who was paying to talk to him—kind of pathetic. It was almost Erin's fears about his attachment to a client brought to life, except it seemed to be making Lovett a happier, more productive person. Sure, there was an edge of unhappiness to investing a not insignificant amount of emotion in someone who probably didn't consider you as more than someone who had to listen them, but it didn't feel like that when they were talking. The period of time that Lovett managed to bear their complicated financial dynamic in mind dwindled with every conversation, and he bitched and bickered freely. Tommy technically had all the financial power, but from another perspective, was Lovett taking advantage of him? He dreaded to think of Tommy's phone bills. He had to have confronted the reality of at least one of them by now. Maybe the fact that Tommy was willing to pay to talk to Lovett was, in a weird way, a mark of esteem?

Even though he knew it was a bad idea on paper, talking to Tommy was addictive. He was smart and funny, vacillating between a dark, biting sense of humour that somehow managed not to tip into misanthropy, and silly, childish puns that he'd let slip almost apologetically, even though Lovett appreciated them every time. He was unafraid to call bullshit on Lovett, while still apparently finding him hilarious, which turned out to be the exact formula that Lovett needed to make him perform at his best. They only talked about their personal lives in vague terms, so they ended up talking about everything else in great detail, which meant that Lovett had to be ready. As insane as it was to prep for your calls with a semi-stranger, he was reading the news and thinking through his opinions as well as his jokes, not wanting to be caught on the back foot ignorant and unfunny. He was working on his pages because he knew Tommy would ask how it was going, and he didn’t want to—ridiculous—let him down.

What did you do when your inappropriate feelings made you a happier, more well-rounded person? For now, Lovett was leaning into it, for as long as he could get away with.

*

It was nearing four am, and Lovett was at least an hour and half past being ready to sign off for the night when another caller rang through. Another night, Lovett wouldn’t have answered. Tonight, Tommy hadn’t called, and even though it was later than he’d ever rung, some sense that the day wasn’t yet complete made Lovett pick up.

“Hi,” said Tommy. He sounded different. That one syllable just a little longer and softer. “Sorry it’s so late.”

“Don’t worry, I’m here all night for your convenience.”

“I’m glad.” There was definitely the slightest hint of slurring. “I thought you might have gone to bed.”

“You sound drunk. Is this a drunk dial?” The prospect was kind of delightful. Tommy a bit more relaxed, a bit looser. “You haven’t drunk dialled me before.” Lovett didn’t count that first time, because it hadn’t been him Tommy was calling.

“Well, for some reason, I can't sleep anymore without talking to you.”

That felt. That felt like the kind of relaxed that Lovett didn’t know how to deal with. Didn’t want to look too closely at. “I’ve got some ideas on how I could help you fall asleep,” he said, voice low and suggestive. It was the kind of flirtatious comment he threw out to Tommy at least five times a conversation: a joke, a deflection, an ineffective reminder to himself of what this interaction was and to Tommy of the service he was technically there to render. It was the kind of flirtatious comment that Tommy had laughed off so many times that Lovett had stopped expecting anything more than the sense that he might have made him blush. Again, tonight was different.

“Now is not the time to make me that offer," he said. His voice, deep and intent, rolled over Lovett like it had physical weight, a hot shiver from his head to his toes. He didn’t know what to say, so for once, he said nothing. “Fuck,” said Tommy, after a moment, “I didn’t think I was drunk, but maybe I am.”

“It sounds like now is exactly the time to make you that offer.” Lovett had regained some of his equilibrium, and reached higher for the upper hand. “If I knew a few drinks would get you to use that voice, I would have suggested it weeks ago. Or have you been up to something else that’s got you in the mood?”

“I’ve been out with a friend, that’s all.” It was not the most convincing performance of nonchalance, but Lovett could have let it go. He sensed something there though, and because it was him, and it was late enough to feel not quite like reality, and he was pretty sure this chink in Tommy’s flirt-proof armour would disappear with the dawn, he dug deeper.

“Was it _that_ friend? Unrequited love, straight as a well-constructed arrow friend?”

“Yes."

“And you couldn’t help but think about another way the night could gone.” Lovett wanted to sound playful, but he could hear that he sounded goading. He was afraid that he sounded jealous. 

“Yes,” said Tommy again, voice strangled.

“Why don’t you tell me about how it might have gone?” Tommy didn’t say anything, but Lovett could hear him breathing on the other end of the phone, louder than usual. “Did you take him somewhere nice, somewhere that you would have taken a date?” Lovett asked, and Tommy didn’t say anything. Sometimes, this job was like cold reading. “Or was it more casual?” There was a catch in Tommy’s breath. That was it. “Some familiar place where the two of you have history, where you’re both relaxed, where it would be so easy to lean in a little closer than usual while you reminisce, to get closer and closer until he realised there was something else you wanted?”

“You’re better at this than I thought you’d be,” said Tommy. His words were dismissive, but his tone said Lovett had hit a nerve.

“I bet you could have, if you’d wanted to. Put a hand on his thigh, under the table, where no one could see, but he could tell exactly what you want.” Lovett had a whole, startlingly vivid tale to tell about Tommy and his stupid friend who had never realised that Tommy was in love with him, but Tommy interrupted him.

“I don’t want.” Tommy swallowed. They’d barely got to anything, and his voice was more ragged than Lovett had ever heard it. “Don’t talk about him. Tell me about you. I want to hear about you.” Lovett had heard this question from countless people. It might sound sincere, but it never was. No one actually wanted to hear about some average looking person on a messy bed, in a small room, in an apartment they couldn't afford. This was how people told you to enter their fantasy more directly. 

“What do you look like?” Tommy asked. This was usually one of the first questions a caller asked him. Tommy never had before, even when Lovett had dropped hints that he had hair just the right length for grabbing or gently rippling muscles. 

In the beginning, Lovett might have been ready with a good answer. There were a number of personas he'd worked on for exactly such purposes. Sometimes, he was tall and ripped, a dumb gay-for-pay beach dude discovering he loved cock deeply and fervently. Sometimes he was blonde and waif like, definitely over eighteen, but still prone to pouting. All the clichés, mostly stolen from porn he had known, but also from people he’d encountered in real life. Hot Professor was the model for one of his particular favourites. The point was, Lovett was prepared. He knew this stuff. He had a spreadsheet with notes about his various characters’ lives as he'd constructed them that he could refer to, for consistency with repeat callers, and he could launch into the basics of most of them at a moment's notice. Usually. With Tommy, he hadn't really ever settled on who he was pretending to be. Thrown off balance by the way they'd started talking, and the way they’d kept talking about anything but sex—unable to continue being Rush Limbaugh—he'd accidentally let real parts of himself slip out in amongst the usual blatant lies, and he hadn't been keeping track of any of it.

When Tommy asked what he looked like, in that tone of voice, he knew that it wasn't the time to go for the truth, but he didn't know exactly what to say. He closed his eyes, and fixed an image of someone else in his head. Someone worthy of the Tommy he'd got to know over the phone, who was intelligent and driven and compassionate. That it was Hot Professor's face that slipped into his mind seemed fitting. Only the best for the best.

“Sure,” he said, lining up a few of the talking points that people seemed to be into, “I can do that. I’m tall, brown hair, brown eyes, sharp jawline. I work out, but I can’t quite seem to get the muscle mass that some guys do. I’m athletic, though, even if I’m not stacked like some guys.”

“Uh huh,” said Tommy, sounding less into it, which was the opposite of what Lovett wanted.

“I.” Wrong footed by Tommy's reaction, not wanting to let him down, Lovett tried to think of something more alluring to say about his fake appearance. “It sounds stupid to say, but I think I’m kind of too pretty? I don’t know, people don’t take me seriously, just because I have big brown eyes or whatever-”

“Tell me about what you're doing right now," interrupted Tommy, to Lovett's profound gratitude. That had been fucking embarrassing.

“I’m lying on my bed, listening to you, and the sound of your voice has me hard already,” said Lovett, accidentally telling the truth.

“Fuck,” said Tommy. “Does that normally happen, when you’re talking to people?”

“No. It doesn’t. You’re special.” That, Tommy seemed to like. He groaned, turned on by the knowledge that he meant more to Lovett than everyone else, which turned Lovett on, a feedback loop of pleasure. He heard the sound of a buckle and a zipper. 

“Are you-” he asked. He didn’t know why he couldn’t finish the question. This should be business as usual,. 

“Yes,” said Tommy, “I have to, I've got to.” Lovett had to as well. Had to shove down his underwear and get a hand on his dick, squeeze it. He must have made a noise, because Tommy asked, “Are you touching yourself?”

“Yeah,” Lovett managed. He felt like he’d entirely lost control of this conversation. He should be fucking steering it, but instead he was barely getting half sentences out. 

“Would you let me touch you, if I was there?” asked Tommy, voice low and dark. 

“Yes,” said Lovett, which is what he would have said to any caller who asked him that. That he meant it this time made it harder to say. 

“No one else gets to touch you, do they?”

“No,” Lovett choked out. He forced himself to keep talking, to actually contribute something to this. “I don’t even, normally, but I am now.” He was, in earnest, hand moving hard and fast and embarrassingly noisy.

“I wish I was there with you,” said Tommy, “I’ve been thinking about it. Every time we talk, thinking about what I’d do to you, if I could. I wouldn’t let you get a hand on your dick, that’s mine. I’d push them up above your head, tell you to hold them there. Could you be that good for me? Keep still and let me do whatever I wanted?” 

“Yes,” gasped Lovett. He wanted that, wanted to put his own hands there now, squeeze handfuls of sheets and give himself over to Tommy’s control, nothing keeping him there but the knowledge he was doing what Tommy asked him to do. 

“Even when I got my mouth on your cock, got it all the way down in my throat, and my fingers inside you, fucking you, nowhere for you to go?”

“Would,” said Lovett, apparently beyond full sentences now, “Whatever you told me to do.”

“Yeah. I can hear you, so wet, jerking yourself so hard. You sound so good. I want to hear you come, will you do that for me? Let me hear how beautiful you sound, coming all over yourself, because of me?”

“I’m gonna,” said Lovett, and started to come. He could hear Tommy’s breath stop on the other end of the line, like he was holding it, even though he had been nearly panting. That’s how much he wanted to hear everything, so much that he wasn’t breathing. The thought of Tommy, lungs burning, so desperate to hear every detail on the other end of the phone that he’d stopped a basic biological function drove Lovett fucking crazy. He curled his body up and gripped himself even harder, pleasure so sharp that it was almost painful, the last few spurts wrung out of him. 

Spent, Lovett relaxed back on to his bed. Tommy’s sounds were back in his ear now, he was grunting a little on each gasp, practically gulping for air, but he still managed to say, “Wish I could see you,” the sound of his hand on his dick, wet and rhythmic, sped up, “Lying on your bed, all messed up, thinking of me.”

“Wish you could see me too,” said Lovett, and he heard the sharp intake of breath, the hurt sound of Tommy starting to come, his tight breaths, the groan of relief as he finished. 

Lovett closed his eyes, his own heartbeat slowing, and let the sound of Tommy calming down wash over him. Based on his deep, even breathing, he'd fallen asleep. Lovett flicked off his light and lay back on his bed, listening. In the dark, it was almost like they were actually lying next to each other, close enough to hear but not touch. For a few minutes, Lovett let himself imagine that.

There was an ache in his chest and throat, tender and sad at the same time. A churning mix of complicated emotions. A sense of accomplishment at helping Tommy come, despite the rocky beginning and the fact that Tommy had done most of the work. Embarrassment, because he knew there were about three times he'd nearly fucked that up, and he didn't even totally understand how. Fondness for the suddenly less impenetrable human on the other end of the phone and the hint of a whistling snore on his breath; he was vulnerable to the soporific effects of alcohol and orgasms just like everyone else. Wistful, because even though he'd known he had been digging an emotional pit for himself for weeks, he hadn't realised that as well wanting more from Tommy, he wanted to give him real parts of himself. It was strange to give someone what they needed and discover that it was almost, but not quite, what he needed. But maybe that was reason for hope? He had to know what the fuck he wanted before he had a chance of making it happen.

As much as Lovett had been trying to tell himself, over and over, that he was providing a service in return for financial gain, not making friends for an emotional payoff, not—god it sounded pathetic even in his head— _dating_ , it had, at several points tonight, seemed as if there might be something about Lovett that Tommy was interested in. Like this was about him, specifically, as a person, rather than some mysterious internal fantasy that Tommy needed the help of a random stranger to enact. Like Tommy really had wanted to know things about Lovett, and make him feel good because he _liked_ him.

Lovett did what he often did when he didn't know what to do, and tried to construct an opening argument to support his case. He had all sorts of evidence to lay out: how often Tommy had asked about his life, not politely in passing, but with follow up questions and suggestions; all the times that he'd made Tommy laugh, real laughter, he could tell; how consistent Tommy had been calling him, even though it was _four fucking dollars a minute_ ; how Tommy had never asked him for any of the things that people normally did, the kind of things you couldn't ask someone unless you were paying them four dollars a minute; how Tommy had actually helped him, and somehow made his life better while they'd been talking, made him better; how it had been Lovett's pleasure that he'd wanted tonight. Lovett imagined turning to the jury to see what impact this abundance of evidence had, but all he saw was Erin's sympathetic, pitying face saying _Jon..._ worrying about him, _he’s paying you_.

Somewhere in the world, Tommy snuffled and rolled over. Lovett's lumpy mattress didn't react, because them sharing a bed was an illusion. An illusion that Tommy was currently paying per minute for. Lovett knew he had to hang up. He was already struck by guilt at least once a day at how much Tommy had to be spending on their conversations, and it was only vague allusions that he'd made to having some kind of reasonably well paid job, and his own craven desperation for Tommy's attention that kept the guilt at that manageable level. Lovett broke the phone connection, and dropped his headset on the floor, once again alone.

Whatever cold water imaginary Erin wanted to pour on his hopes and dreams, it wouldn't be that hard to convert the almost-but-not-quite in their relationship into something else, and to wipe away the money-power imbalance, if they both wanted it. Yesterday, Lovett would have said that that couldn’t be what Tommy wanted, but there had been something in tonight that was about him, he was sure of it. Well, he was up to 52% sure of it. Maybe all it would take was asking?

Lovett smiled into his pillow. Next time they talked, he was going to tease Tommy very hard about falling asleep, and then, he might give him his real number.

*

The next day, Tommy didn't ring back. It was disappointing to have to wait to act on his newfound understanding, but Lovett remained blithely cheerful, buoyed up by his resolution to at least attempt to put them on a more honest, equal footing.

When he still didn't ring the day after that, a kernel of doubt started to wriggle its way in. Lovett had thought there had been something there, in their last conversation, but what if he'd imagined it? He wished he was working on some shitty article for Cosmo about the realities of chat lines, because then he could play back the tapes in the hard light of day and try and see if he'd been reading too much into it. He didn't think he had. It had felt different.

On the third day, the kernel began to sprout in earnest. He wondered if maybe it had been too different, or too much for Tommy. He wasn't out, after all. That was how this whole thing had got going. He'd been a bit drunk, perhaps more so than Lovett had realised, drunk enough to do something he didn't really want to do. Or maybe it had been good enough that Tommy had had a different realisation from Lovett, and gone to try his luck with the friend he'd actually been in love with all these years.

On the fourth day, the kernel had exploded into an ugly, pernicious weed. Lovett remembered that when given a chance, he'd been terrible at dirty talk. So terrible that Tommy had had to take over, which now Lovett thought about it, he'd probably mainly done to avoid being rude. He almost certainly hadn't liked it at all, had woken up, disappointed and regretful at all the time and money he'd wasted on talking to some random sex-adjacent worker who turned out to not even be good at their job.

By the time a week had gone by, Lovett felt hopelessly fucking naive. He remembered how one of his first theories had been that Tommy was into delayed gratification, and it seemed plausible all over again. Perhaps Tommy's kink was wooing people, waiting until the exact moment that they were sure they felt something for him and then cutting them off, like a serial killer who got off on killing people, except it was metaphorical heart break, not actual cardiac death that hit the spot for him. Maybe Tommy was wherever the hell he was jerking off to the thought of Lovett tormented by not understanding what the fuck happened, to imagining how powerless and crushed he felt, to knowing how much Lovett still wanted to talk to him.

Day by day, Lovett churned through his theories, and day after day, Tommy didn't call.

*

"Mmmm, mhm," said Lovett, when there was a pause in the other person's stream of words. People were saying some truly terrible shit on Twitter. Shit that couldn't stand. "Yeah baby," he added distractedly, clicking on the replies to see if anyone else had made a cogent rebuttal he could retweet.

"Did you just call me baby?" asked his mother, somewhere between confused and indignant.

Shit! Lovett nearly tipped his chair over, dropped his phone, righted himself, scrambled to pick up his phone, and put it back to his ear just in time to shout, "No!”. No he did not just sex talk his mother, that cannot have happened. "I was talking to Pundit." Hearing her name, Pundit raised her head from where she was curled up like a sleepy angel on his bed, innocently uninvolved in his shenanigans. But Lovett was immune to her guilt trips. She owed him for all the lies he told for her to the neighbours. They all thought the Labrador in the building next door had a voice that really travelled.

His mother on the other hand, still had full guilt inducement privileges.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" she asked.

Horribly, his eyes prickled at the question. Was he okay? Almost welling up at being asked was a slight indication that he wasn't, but he didn't want his mom to know that. "I'm fine mom," he said, "just a bit stressed between work and writing and stuff."

"And twitter? You know I can see it too when your twitter messages pop up in the middle of our conversation."

Why had Lovett ever shown his mom how to use the internet? "Sorry." Ugh, he was the worst son. "That was rude."

His mom however, was awesome, and laughed in response. "I suppose I'm also culpable for thinking you'd be interested in your sister's friend's baby shower."

"Thank you for admitting that," said Lovett magnanimously. "I really am fine though."

"Well, just remember you can come home anytime. You can write in your bedroom here as well there, or we've got plenty of legal issues in Long Island if that's not working out. It's not as glamorous, but you spent enough time and money on-"

"Mom! I know." Still feeling penitent, Lovett listened more attentively through her account of his father's recent doctor's appointment and a long story about an incident at work with a photocopier, but had to draw the line after that and tell her he had work to do.

Her question and his reaction lingered though, long after he’d hung up. He was not, he was pretty sure, okay. What had been an overall more easy and amusing than gross way to support his attempt to really give his dream a go, without having to stick to a work schedule or put outdoor clothes on, had become a depressing time suck he put the same effort into as phone calls with his mom. He loved his mom, but that was not indicative of pride and satisfaction in his work. He'd spend hours in his room for only a handful of phone calls, and then feel crappy about it afterwards. Almost everyone who called was either too icky for him to want to talk to them, too sad for him to want to bilk them for long phone calls, or able to accurately observe that he was not taking this seriously. Lately, everyone was not Tommy, because he hadn't called in fifteen days, even though Lovett still felt like it would be him every time.

That, right there, was the greatest glaring, flashing, fucking searing sign that he was Not Okay. He was counting the days since some stranger whose real name he didn't even know had called to pay him for sex talk. Or not even for sex talk, since the one time he'd managed that he'd driven him away forever. He was obsessing, mooning, _pining_ , over some guy he'd never met, who he never would meet, who didn't want to talk to him, let alone meet him, and who probably lived halfway across the country. He was probably _Canadian_. Someone he didn't really know anything about, and certainly couldn’t trust. Sure, he hadn't sounded like a creepy old man on the phone, but he could be. He could be a Republican. He could be married. He was definitely the kind of person who phoned a sex line, although not primarily for sex, which was confusing.

And this was typical of the mental gymnastics that Lovett had been performing for months to justify keeping on in a job he disliked more every time the phone rang, and to explain away the pang of disappointment and shame he felt every time it wasn't Tommy on the other end of the phone. He needed to sort his shit out.

What was holding him back? It's not like he wasn't a quitter. Jon Lovett wasn't known for sticking it out. Big ambitions that didn't work out were practically his thing. He hated being a stupid paralegal. He couldn’t take the endless low key humiliation of the lowest tier of New York’s stand up scene. He flunked the interview for Senator Corzine's staff that could have been his doorway into paid political work. He got all the way through law school out of sheer ennui to discover after only a couple of years of practice that it wasn't for him, and when a creative dream powerful enough to drive him from his comfort zone did finally coalesce, his words dried up all together, leaving him stranded out at sea with _this_ as his main activity and income. Why the fuck would he make working at a phone sex line, of all things, the one time he didn’t give up?

*

A week off from the squelch of the chat line did wonders for Lovett's state of mind, and it quickly stretched into another week, and another, until going back seemed like a remote, unappealing possibility. The number of times that he thought about Tommy over those weeks had not reduced that significantly, but he had intellectually accepted that he had fucked himself over, building expectations that he should not have been building within the paradigm of their purely transactional relationship. Emotional acceptance would follow, he hoped.

That self-inflicted wound aside, he felt a lot less fatalistic about the human race overall when he didn't have a certain segment of it breathing heavily into his ear for a few hours a day. He hadn't even realised how much of the day he'd been spending locked away inside until he started leaving the house more. Now he went to coffee shops with his laptop and sat staring at it and not touching it in the silent of company of other people, instead of while mostly not weeping with the curtains drawn in his apartment. Now he went to the park with Pundit and enjoyed the sun on his face, instead of feeling like a pale, clammy cave-person who shouldn't spend too much time on the earth's surface in case they blistered.

Enjoying the sun a little too much perhaps, because when Lovett opened his eyes, Pundit was nowhere to be seen. Lovett turned on the spot, slowly, scanning the grass all around where Pundit had been mere seconds ago, and then again, faster and less effectively.

"Pundit!" he called. Nothing.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, a familiar gold tail wagging over someone's shoulder. Someone who was walking out of the park with Lovett's dog in his arms.

"Hey!" he shouted, running towards the kidnapper, who neither slowed, nor tried to make a break for it, like he wasn't even bothered at being caught in the commission of a heinous crime. Lovett reached them and grabbed the guy’s arm, without really having a plan for what he would do to wrest poor Pundit from her assailant. Hopefully he was the kind of criminal who cowered before stern words and shrieks for help.

It was the Hot Professor, which Lovett barely registered, eyes going to the dog, who was not Pundit.

"Can I help you?” Hot Professor asked, polite in the face of being unexpectedly accosted.

"Sorry, I thought-" distracted, Lovett started looking around again. How long had it been? "I can't find my dog. She was right here."

Hot Professor frowned, and cradled his own golden doodle closer, as if Lovett's doglessness might be catching. "What does she look like?"

"Like your dog, but cuter." Lovett cupped his hands round his mouth, because movies had brainwashed him into thinking he could form a loudspeaker out of his hands, and bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Pundit!"

"Is that her name?"

Lovett was too panicked by now to formulate an appropriately scathing answer to this, in context, stupid question. "Yes." He absolutely was not going to cry. He was going to stay calm, find his dog, and not cry.

"Hey," said Hot Professor, touching his arm sympathetically, as if he was trying to make Lovett lose the delicate grip he had on his dignity. "We'll find her. She can't have gone far."

Annoyingly, this clichéd platitude, that he'd already been repeating to himself in a steady stream, because he knew that was what you said in this kind of situation, was, out of this man's mouth, exactly what Lovett needed to pull himself together. He took a deep breath, trying to think what could have tempted Pundit, by nature gratifyingly clingy, away. It was pretty much only dognappers, and food.

"She's probably been lured in by a hog roast or something," said Lovett. "Did you see any spit roasted meat around?"

Hot Professor contemplated this, then set his dog down and unclipped its lead. "Smell anything good Leo?" he asked. His doodle, who Lovett presumed was called Leo because he was able to successfully read context clues, blinked up at him, unnervingly placid. A dismissive comment about Leo's tracking skills, or the time-wasting lack of them, was on the tip of Lovett's tongue when Leo trotted off, Hot Professor in pursuit. Feeling slightly hysterical that he was following a random dog through the park, probably to watch him pee on his favourite tree, while the precious minutes that his own angel had been gone ticked away, Lovett trailed after them.

As they rounded a particularly dense shrub, Lovett heard a familiar yip. There, shamelessly baring her belly to a delighted group of picnickers in return for scraps of rotisserie chicken, was Pundit. She had the gall to spring to her feet and bound over to Lovett as if she'd been looking for him instead of practically daring strangers to adopt her, but he was so grateful to see her he sank down into the grass and played along, rubbing his hands over her ecstatic sides and cooing. Leo nosed over to investigate them both, and Lovett gave him his own well deserved scritches of reward. He should never have doubted a golden doodle.

"I'm guessing that's Pundit?" asked Hot Professor.

"The world's best dog," Lovett confirmed. Still giddy with the joy of their reunion, he beamed up at Hot Professor. The power of Hot Professor's answering smile was such that Lovett was uncomfortably, viscerally reminded quite how much perving he'd done over him. He probably would have said something awkward in response, but Hot Professor rescued him from himself with the realisation that he was late to his next class.

"I'll see you around," he called, as he and Leo hurried away.

*

There was no protective distraction the next afternoon when, as Lovett, Erin and Pundit sat sort of innocently at their usual table, Hot Professor spotted them, broke into a wide smile, and came over.

"Hi," he said to Lovett, like he was a well-established friend. Pundit got off Lovett's feet to sniff at him and wag her tail, enthusiastic and indiscreet.

"Hi," said Lovett, wide-eyed, cornered.

"I'm Jon Favreau, by the way. I don't think we got round to that yesterday.” He stuck his elegant hand out.

"Jon," said Lovett, shaking the hand. "I mean, I'm also Jon, but everyone calls me Lovett."

"Ah, like everyone calls me Favs. Do you get the feeling our parents didn't put that much effort in?"

"Baby boomers are the worst," said Lovett, sagely.

Favs nodded in agreement. "So in context," he said, gesturing at the cafe, "I realise that I see you in here all the time. Are you at the university?"

"No," said Lovett. As ever, he didn't know how to elaborate on his ever lengthening period of unemployment.

"I'm doing a PhD in English Literature," said Erin, who was still there. "Jon's an ex-lawyer struggling to write the screenplay that burns just out of reach inside him."

"This is my friend Erin," said Lovett dutifully, "she's nursing her soul back to health after nearly losing it at Merrill Lynch. We're going through the corporate recovery process together."

"It's a slow process," said Erin. She turned her attention to Favs. "What about you?"

"Kind of the same thing, but I'm recovering from the ravages of politics in D.C, and I haven't managed to make it into another discipline yet. I'm teaching poli sci across the road."

"And how did you and Lovett meet?" asked Erin, in her unconvincing innocent voice.

How they'd met was, in retrospect, pretty embarrassing, but Favs caught his eyes with a warm conspiratorial look, like Lovett accosting him in the park was a shared in-joke and not an example of incompetent dog ownership.

"I thought he'd kidnapped Pundit," said Lovett, "but his dog turned out be an innocent doppelgänger in a more complex scam that some picnickers were running." Favs laughed with his whole head thrown back, even though Lovett had barely made a joke. It was fascinating.

"Under our shared custody agreement, Leo is with my ex-girlfriend this week," Favs said, when he'd recovered the composure he'd inexplicably lost so easily, "but we should get him and Pundit together for a dog playdate. I usually take him to the park after my last class, around four." He checked his watch. "Which I should head off for. But maybe I'll see you at the park next week?”

"Sure," said Lovett, bemused.

Once he'd gone, Erin turned to Lovett and raised an eyebrow. "I thought that the point of these get togethers was for us to catch each other up on the major happenings of our lives. I nod politely through twenty minutes of your boring hunt for a part time job, and your fear of admitting failure and going back to law, and this whole time you had a juicy meet-cute with Hot Professor in your back pocket? I feel betrayed. Would you even have mentioned it if he hadn’t come over to flirt with you?"

"That wasn't flirting," Lovett scoffed. "Did you not see how careful he was to mention his ex- _girl_ friend? Classic no-homo signalling."

"His _ex_ -girlfriend. That he's no longer seeing. Classic I'm-single signalling."

"We'll have to agree to disagree." Even aside from his recent romantic travails, Lovett had a very firm personal policy of not going there with straight guys and people who were out his league, but it was the kind of the thing that well-meaning friends thought they had a duty to talk you out of if you mentioned it out loud, even though it was more self-preservation than self-deprecation. "Finish telling me about the Virginia Woolf mansplainer."

*

His policy did not stop him going to the dog park exactly five casual minutes after four o'clock the next week. "This is for your benefit," he told Pundit sternly, as he happened to leave the house in his second best pair of maroon pants and a clean, logo free t-shirt. "If you'd run after a ball sometimes I wouldn't have to seek out the company of other dogs for you."

Because she was the avatar of his secret urges, Pundit located Leo almost immediately, taking a flying tackle right at him that he took affectionately. Lovett exercised human restraint and only sat down next to Favs when the strength of his welcoming grin indicated he really had wanted Lovett to come hang out.

After that, dog playdates became a regular thing, as did Lovett's increasingly severe mental violations of his straight-guys-and-tens policy, despite the fact that Favs definitely fit into both those categories. Lovett could see how Erin had labelled his friendliness flirting, but the more he got to know Favs, the more he realised that that was just him. For all he joked about politics and Washington making him jaded and cynical, he greeted everyone and everything, from students intruding on his personal time with questions about term papers to rude dog owners who couldn't control their inappropriately large and vicious pets, with genuine optimism and generosity. Even odder, it somehow worked. Spending an hour with Favs was like spending an hour under a good luck charm, where coffee shops always charged you for a small latte and even the woman with the yappy terrier that had once bitten Lovett on the ankle responded to reason and apologised for her dog's misdeeds. If you spent enough time with him, the effects of the charm lingered on you, and made you a nicer person. It was goddamn intoxicating.

If Lovett hadn't totally banished his feelings for the stranger he knew as Tommy, at least he was displacing some of his feelings to a slightly less embarrassing place. Neither scenario was fantastic, but a straight guy you knew in real life was better than a bi-curious voice on a phone whose name you didn't even know, right?

*

"Good afternoon, how can I guide you to a premium vibration experience?" It wasn't the handbook mandated opening line, but as it turned out, working at an electric toothbrush helpline was a lot more boring than a phone sex line. Lovett had to make his own fun.

"I-" the voice on the other end paused. "Joe?"

He should have known this day would come. "How do you know that name?" hissed Lovett, flattening himself down on his desk.

"It's um, Tommy. From the other phone line." When Lovett continued to sit, or rather to crouch, in stunned silence, he added, "the sex one?" voice cracking a little at the end.

The explanation was unnecessary. As soon as he'd started stringing together more than one word at a time, Lovett recognised that distinctive deep voice, and the rush of excitement, happiness, and shame that came with it. Since crouching down served no purpose, and made him look deeply suspicious, Lovett sat back up and tried to look normal. Hopefully it was the first step to sounding normal. “Of course, Tommy. How did you find me?"

"I er, actually called for some toothbrush support."

"Right. Of course." Because, as Lovett had almost managed to forget, Tommy was the one who had stopped calling him. Lovett was the one doing some kind of accidental reverse stalking, ending up on the end of every phone call Tommy made. It was unreasonable to feel hurt that a stranger had stopped wanting to pay dollars per minute to talk to him and not even get off. For the most part. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"I haven't been receiving my new brush heads."

For the first time since it had been handed to him, Lovett felt profoundly grateful that he had been supplied with a detailed script to tell him what to say to customers. He flipped to the brush heads page, fingers clumsy, and read the supplied line of dialogue out loud. "I'm sorry to hear that sir," he said, "It sounds like we might have the wrong information recorded in your account. Can you give me your customer number?"

Great. All he had to do was make the choice between 'Sir' and 'Madam' when speaking. This was easy. Easily amongst the top ten least awkward post kinda-coital conversations he'd had with people who regretted their choices as regards him. He should take a copy of this baby home with him, so they could face all life's future rejections together.

Tommy didn't reply. Lovett's chest ached. "Or I can transfer you to another operator? If you don't want me to know your address and real name and stuff. I can't see that unless I know your customer number, so you're still alright."

He thought he'd done a reasonable job of keeping the completely uncalled for sting of hurt from his voice, but maybe he hadn't, because Tommy replied, "It really is Tommy," and recited his customer number.

Lovett moved on to the next instruction in his script, which was to click through to the 'contact details' section of the database and check the customer's identity. "Can you confirm your zip code for me?" the script prompted him to ask. Tommy read back the same string of numbers as on screen, numbers Lovett knew well. Local numbers.

"Perfect." He heard his own voice as if through a distant tunnel. "And the rest of your address madam?" Tommy laughed, deep and rich and familiar. "I mean sir," he corrected. Goddamn traitorous, tricky script book.

Tommy complied, and thankfully, the cause of his problem quickly became clear. "It looks like your brush heads have been going to another building on your road," said Lovett, speaking quickly. He could sense the light at the tunnel and lurched eagerly towards it. "I've corrected that, and requested immediate dispatch of some new brush heads." Without waiting, he threw in the sweetener he was only meant to offer if the customer seemed dissatisfied. He needed this to be over. "You should receive a refund of your subscription fee for the period you weren't receiving them. I can only apologise for the inconvenience. Is there anything else I can do for you today?"

"I really did want to find you," said Tommy, veering off script before Lovett could, against protocol, hang up on him.

"I'm not the one who stopped calling," said Lovett, sharply, before he remembered he was a) not hard done by and b) at work, where raising your voice to customers was frowned upon.

"For two weeks!" replied Tommy. "Then I tried calling you back, but you were never online."

"Yeah, I don't do that anymore," said Lovett. "I do this now."

"With all the grace and innuendo you brought to your previous role," said Tommy, completely ignoring the great self-control that Lovett had shown sticking to the boring stupid script. It was true that he wouldn't have been able to get hold of Lovett again once he stopped signing in to the service. And he sounded happy to be talking to Lovett, like Lovett had thought he did before, and also like he had spent a great deal of energy convincing himself he'd imagined. It was harder to tell himself that when Tommy's voice was actually in his ear again, sounding all fond, and when it turned out that he had actually been honest with Lovett in the second conversation they'd ever had.

“I can’t believe you gave me your real name,” said Lovett. “Who gives their real name to a sex line? And what grown man goes by Tommy? Please reassure me one more time that you aren't a child."

“I’m very full grown,” said Tommy, in what, if Lovett didn’t know better, he would have described as a flirtatious tone of voice. “Six foot two and thoroughly legal. Don’t you have all my details there?”

"Oddly enough, this toothbrush company doesn’t keep full body measurements on file. I'll have to keep taking your word for it."

"While you've got all my personal information in front of you, why don't you write down my phone number?" said Tommy, voice a study in unconvincing faux nonchalance, "and give me a call sometime. I won't even charge."

Ache banished, a warm glow suffused Lovett's whole body. "You really did miss me," he said, wonderingly. "But is this friend talking, or sex talking? Because not that I'm not open to both, but I've been told you shouldn't give your milk away for free."

There was that laugh again. God, Lovett had missed that laugh. "Maybe a bit of both?"

"I can do a bit of both." Lovett had to spin in his chair to work off some excess glee. His grin was wide and work inappropriate.

"Great." Somehow, he could tell Tommy had the same look on his face. Wow, he might get to see Tommy's actual face, as well as learn his real name and phone number and address. This was wild.

"Great," he parroted back. He repressed the urge to say, 'you hang up' like an infatuated teenager. "I've got to go," he managed instead, "seeing as I'm at work and all that." 

"Right," said Tommy. "But don't not call me, okay?"

"I will, you stalker." He smiled down the phone a bit more, until he saw his supervisor glaring at him. "But bye for real. Bye." He quickly pressed the button to end the call before he could get any more ridiculous, and spun his chair around until he was giddy for two reasons, glare be damned.

*

 _You know,_ he texted to Tommy's number as he left for the day, after a meeting with his manager where he had struggled to keep a suitably penitent look on his face, _your inappropriate flirting got me reprimanded at work._

A reply popped up as he was climbing the stairs back up to his apartment. _Ooops_ it said, and a moment later, as he shut his front door behind him, _Let me make it up to you by buying you a drink?_

Lovett felt the urge to jump up and down with joy so, it being a free country and him being enclosed by the sanctity of his own four private walls, he dropped his phone down on his bed and did.

But, first things first. He went to his desk and opened his laptop. Look, Lovett was going to go. He was completely gone for this person he'd never met. But if Tommy was fifty years old, or not his type, or—worst of all—a libertarian, then it was probably best he know beforehand, so he could prepare himself. He wasn't shallow enough to let looks put him off, he hoped, but he was shallow enough to want to be forewarned. So, breath bated, he googled "Tommy Vietor".

The first result was from People magazine, which Lovett scrolled past reflexively. As the results unspooled, it became clear that he'd been too hasty to dismiss it.

The absolute fucking worst case scenario was true. Tommy Vietor was no troll. He wasn't even an old man. He was ridiculously handsome. Like, Jon Favreau handsome. Like, this link to a twenty-under-30 hot, powerful people in finance article that popped up wasn't a red herring, it was _him_ handsome. He didn't have any eyebrows, but he did have biceps that made you consider the extent to which eyebrows were overvalued by society. He had a fucking TED talk. Here he was with _Obama_.

He snapped his laptop shut and stepped away from it. Turned, reluctantly, inexorably, towards his mirror, to confront the truth. Love had not yet transformed him into a prince. His reflection looked exactly as it always did. Fine, if you liked messy sort-of-cute-if-you-squinted guys, but not his main selling point. Okay, as long as it was what you were expecting, and you weren't that into necks.

And it wasn't what Tommy was expecting, was it? He hadn't considered it a factor when he'd spoken to Tommy today, because of course he'd lied about who he was. Being whatever random fantasy a caller had was a basic requirement of phone sex. But did Tommy know that? He had given Lovett his real name. Apparently he didn't know any of the unwritten rules that Lovett thought they were operating under, which explained a lot.

With vivid, horrible clarity, Lovett remembered some of the various ways he'd described himself to Tommy over the time they’d talked and in their final conversation, when he thought he'd never meet him. When he'd thought he was _safe_. Tall, he'd said, because Tommy sounded tall. A strong jaw, he'd said, because Tommy had carried an unrequited torch for his fellow non-frat-bro for years, and Lovett had extrapolated from that that he probably liked the clean-cut, all American look. He was athletic, but he didn't bench press much, he'd said, because Tommy seemed like he wanted to be in charge, and Lovett had wanted to leave room for that if it ever came up, for them to talk about Tommy pinning him down and physically overpowering him. For fuck's sake, he'd been picturing Jon fucking Favreau, the most beautiful human being he'd ever seen in real life, for some of it. Even if he'd only slightly done justice to that face, he'd royally fucked himself over.

No wonder Tommy, a handsome, successful Renaissance man with an ass that—according to his photoshoot with People fucking magazine—wouldn't quit, wanted to meet up. He thought he'd stumbled into some kind of semi-sanitised 'Pretty Woman' scenario, the stunningly gorgeous and sassy sex worker who'd never had a chance that he could rescue from iniquity. Instead, this was more like 'The Truth About Cats and Dogs', an insecure short disaster of an idiot, failing downwards through life, lying about what they looked like, and stringing a nice, trusting guy along. Except the real life version, where people didn't forgive you for revealing all their conceptions as misconceptions, and looks mattered.

Lovett tilted his face to its good angle, and kind of tousled his hair a bit. This did not miraculously transform it into the artfully styled locks that begged to be messed up he had mentioned on the phone (toning down the actual stupid amount of product that Favs put in his, a rare case of art improving on life that _didn't help him at all right now_ ). His hair was still a mess of what could charitably be called curls that defied his attempts to subdue them. Okay, that accurately reflected the lack of effort that he put into their upkeep. Whatever. The point was, it was the frizzy cherry on top of the disappointment sundae that was him.

His phone sat on his bed, taunting him. He really wanted to meet Tommy. He really wanted Tommy to keep on wanting him. These two things did not seem like they could coexist. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-a-duck. At least he was a brunette. That was real.

The grown up thing to do would be to send him an apologetic, explanatory selfie, and take whatever lumps came his way. If Tommy changed his mind, he was only back where he was this morning. What Lovett's instincts told him to do ghost him, and avoid the inevitable rejection.

He either needed some Dutch courage, or to drown his sorrows. Whichever way you looked at it: booze.

*

Lovett put a handful of crumpled bills down on the bar. “How many shots will this buy me?” he asked. The bartender gave him a dubious look. Fucking fuck the judgemental world.

He turned to scope the seating, and seriously, fuck the world, because there was Favs, slumped at a table, one of a handful of people in the grotty bar. He looked as miserable as you'd expect someone who'd come, at six thirty on a Wednesday, to a dive like this dive, with its total lack of redeeming features beyond anonymity and economy. It was like peering an hour into the future of the alternate universe where he was the imaginary handsome version of him. Except the imaginary handsome version of him would already be making out with Tommy, untroubled by cares and woes. Maybe imaginary handsome him had pretended to be a redhead and now was worried Tommy wouldn't like him. What an idiot. That fucker didn't know what problems were.

His tray of shots arrived, comically large. Lovett knocked one of the shots back, just to be sure they'd really served him alcohol. It was horrible. Yup, that was the bad stuff. “And a Miller Light," he coughed to the bartender. He'd need a chaser.

It was still possible for Lovett to go sit somewhere else. Favs seemed caught up enough in slumping over his table that he hadn't even noticed Lovett, and a small, but not insignificant, portion of Lovett's situation could be unfairly blamed on his stupid, hauntingly beautiful face. But he wasn't the imaginary handsome version of Lovett, brooding over not being a redhead like he couldn't solve that problem with a packet of hair dye. He was Lovett's friend, and he was upset, and maybe hearing what had managed to knock his sunny, blessed existence into turmoil would put Lovett's problems into perspective. It was probably some heteronormative shit storm of an issue that would at least remind Lovett how grateful he was to be gay.

Clinking gently, he made his way over, and carefully set his platter of shots down. Favs lifted his head off the sticky table he'd been unwisely laying it upon and, apparently surprised out of his pit of despair by the arrival of large volumes of alcohol and a friendly face, smiled at Lovett. It lit him up like a fucking lantern, even though he had a bar mat stuck to his cheek. "Hey!" he said, brightly. The bar mat fell off, dislodged by the force of his open-hearted enthusiasm.

"So, what brings a boy like you to a place like this?" Lovett asked, taking a seat. "Girl trouble? Are you scaring them off by being prettier than them?"

Favs' face fell back into its previous morose arrangement. "No." He gave a hollow laugh. "Just your standard late onset sexuality crisis."

Fuck his fucking life. Fuck his life and all his choices and everyone he'd ever met. Lovett did one of his shots, and soothed the burn with a long swallow of weak beer. Favs watched him with concern, which was rich coming from a man with the number of empty glasses next to him that he had.

Fortified, Lovett soldiered ahead. Maybe this wouldn't be the life affirming experience he'd hoped, but he could find joy in selflessly helping others. He was that kind of person. "Fine then, tell Uncle Lovett, amateur sexuality crisis manager, all about it. But I should warn you, I've got a very high rate of converting people to my side, and I usually charge by the minute."

"Wouldn't that make you a professional, not an amateur?" asked Favs.

"Do you want my advice, or do you want to drink in silence till we both pass out? Because I could very much go for the latter."

Like the intelligent man he was, Favs took up the offer. "It's. Well. There's this one guy. I've known him forever. And I've kind of had a thing for him forever. But he was straight and I was straight and it was only him, so I told myself it was only, you know," Favs gestured with his half empty bottle, dousing them both lightly in room temperature, yeasty liquid, because this day got better with every passing moment, "a friend crush thing-”

“Friend crushes are a myth perpetuated by the hetero industrial complex," interjected Lovett.

Favs ignored him. “-and I left it. For years." He thumped his bottle down on the table for emphasis, losing the last couple of inches of beer in a dramatic fountain effect. "Years!" he shouted.

"Okay. Well, you were right about the futility of crushing on straight people." As Lovett well knew, or thought he did before topsy-turvy day started.

"And then lately it's been not just him." Favs quietened, slumping down in his chair and fiddling with the label on his beer. With some effort, Lovett forced himself to stay silent, and give him the space to speak. "I've had other feelings. Not straight feelings." Favs flickered his eyes up at Lovett, as if he might get some objection from that quarter. When none came, because Lovett wasn't some kind of monster, who would say something to make those doe eyes turn wounded or ashamed, he sat up straight again. "And I thought fine. I guess I'm not so straight, good to know. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe this will help me get over him." 

"So far so bi," said Lovett, when Favs seemed to be waiting for a response. "Got it."

"And then!" Down went the beer bottle of emphasis again, and thank god it was empty and apparently made of stern stuff, because it was the biggest thump so far. Lovett reached out to pry it from Favs' hand, leaving him free to gesticulate safely. "Today, he says this thing, like it's fucking nothing, which implies he's not so straight. After all these years! Like he's been not straight this whole time! And keeping it from me!"

Not to sound unsympathetic, but defcon fucking... whatever the low end of the scale was. "So what's the problem? Two men who like men. That’s how all great love stories begin." Lovett's problems were way worse. Lovett's problems would make Favs' hair curl, and then he too would have to experience the agony of even thinking about a suitable hair care routine.

"Because the whole reason it came up is because there's someone else. A third guy. Some third fucking guy that he's dating," Favs poked furiously at his own chest, and leaned in towards Lovett. "And I've got my own guy! My fourth guy!” Injustice poured out, Favs leaned back in his seat again. "And I'm probably straight anyway. Maybe straight," he muttered, sulky and defiant.

"Yes, this is the straightest sexuality crisis I've ever seen," said Lovett, flatly, "I wish you'd shut up about breasts and vaginas and how much you aren't into any men romantically even a little bit."

Fuck, Lovett was the kind of monster who made Favs' eyes turn wounded and ashamed. "I'm sorry. I probably sound like a complete loser to you. You know who you are and went through all this at the appropriate time and I'm in my fucking thirties not even knowing who I like, bothering you with my shit."

If he had Jon Favreau feeling inferior, something was definitely wrong with the universe. "If there's anything I can empathise with, it's guy trouble. What do you think these are for?" Lovett gestured at his still impressive tray of shots, and took another. "I've got a guy who likes me," he said, once the hideous sensation of it sliding down his throat had dissipated. It was starting to get hard to talk distinctly.

"Great. Salt in the wound, but great. I'm happy for you," said Favs, sincerely, because he was a good person.

"But he doesn't really," explained Lovett. "He thinks he does, but I'm not what he thinks I am. He thinks I'm like you." The reason it was hard to talk distinctly was that his lips were getting slightly numb. He reached up to check they were there, and they were.

"A total fucking disaster?"

"A fucking showboat! But when he finds out who I really am he's going to be so disappointed. Because he really is one." Mournfully, Lovett pictured the cheekbones he'd seen on google, and would probably never get to see in real life, never get to gently lay a hand on. They looked like they would feel really good under a gentle hand.

"A showboat?"

Well that didn't make sense. "I mean dreamboat," he explained. "Keep up."

"I think you're cute,” said Favs, inconsequentially.

What a load of nice guy bullshit. "Don't fucking condescend to me," Lovett said, cutting that off at the pass. They didn't need to lie to each other. He pushed an indeterminate number of the remaining shots towards Favs. "Split these with me," he commanded.

"A toast," Favs lifted a shot to the ceiling, and Lovett did the same. "To the five guys!" said Favs. They both knocked the shots back. By the time the burn had dissipated, Lovett still didn't understand what he'd toasted to.

“Are you saying you want a burger?" Favs looked back at him uncomprehendingly. "That might be a good idea. There's a Five Guys across the road, and you're drunking. In fact, give me back some of those."

"No," said Favs, wrapping a protective arm around his shots and pulling them away from Lovett. Two of them fell off the edge of the table. "The five guys in our," he whirled his hand in the air, blurry and beautiful, like a sexy Catherine wheel hung up on not one, but two other people, "romantic entanglements."

"Six guys," corrected Lovett, in a sign he had not had his fair share of shots. Which was all of them. Because he'd bought them.

Favs' eyes widened, no doubt impressed by Lovett's comprehension skills, even when under the influence. "Six guys! Yes, there are six guys. There were six guys all along. Six separate individual guys." He leaned his chin on his hand and smiled at Lovett. "You are so good at math."

Now that Lovett could thump a fist on the table for. "I am good at math!" he agreed, and raised a glass. "To the six guys!"

*

Slowly, awareness returned to Lovett's body. When the first reports came in he tried, he really did, to pull back from consciousness. His body was next-level hot and sticky, and at some point last night he had stuffed his head with vast quantities of lead wool. Lovett wanted no part of it. It would be best for everyone if he stayed asleep until at least the heat death of the universe, when he would either feel less sweaty, or be distracted from his physical discomfort by more pressing issues, like the end of all life.

As per usual, the universe was listening, but only in a dickish kind of way where it wilfully misinterpreted his thoughts like a rogue genie, hell bent on tricking him into his own death and destruction. Which was to say, it supplied a more pressing issue.

The more pressing issue rolled up against his back and groaned. Unlike Lovett, who was fully behind his skin's sudden desire to slough off his body and escape any kind of physical sensation, it appeared to derive comfort and succour from skin to skin contact, burrowing what felt like a human face between his shoulder blades and wrapping what felt like a human arm around his hips. Lovett lay very, very still and focused on re-engaging his unwieldy, throbbing brain. He needed to be methodical about this.

There had been shots. Lots of shots. And Favs, lots and lots and—Lovett's mind fast-forwarded to several vivid memories of how much tanned golden skin lay under Favs' clothes— _lots_ of Favs.

Before that... a flash of something else returned to him, and Lovett chased after it, like a kitten after a string. Back in the bar, before all the nudity, it had seemed quite clear that his sympathy and advice was paltry and insufficient, but also that he was duty bound to share the wisdom of his experience with Favs, and to help him if could. Enough theory, he'd said, and then something about an oral presentation. Favs had been flatteringly keen, before, during, after and then during again.

Yes, Lovett was pretty sure he'd done his part for men who liked men everywhere by opening up yet another beautiful mind to the joys of gay sex. Or his part for whichever of the two lucky bastards that Favs had his eye on that he went for in the end.

Lovett swallowed, forcing down the jealousy—or it could have been bile— that rose in his throat at the thought of Favs swanning off with some other guy. That wasn’t even-why did he-look, he told himself firmly, this didn't have to be a wrenching, painful experience. At least not beyond all the physical ways that he was suffering. It could be a fun, triumphant return to the world of happy, casual sex with an unfeasibly hot guy who he also happened to like as a person. All he had to do was get control of his wayward romantic urges, frame it that way in his mind, and stop emotionally sabotaging himself at every fucking turn.

Before he could make much progress on that front, Favs started to wake up properly. He did this with an agonising stretch all along the length of Lovett's back that ended with him wrapping himself around Lovett and squeezing. It both made him want to vomit, and was one of the sexiest things he'd ever experienced in his life, which was a confusing mix. Once he was sure neither of those sensations were going to lead him to do anything embarrassing, Lovett rolled onto his back. Favs propped himself up an elbow and gave him a bleary, yet somehow still unfairly dazzling smile.

"Well, that was certainly elucidating," Favs said, in a sexy, wrecked rumble that gave Lovett another one of those full body flashbacks, this time to how his voice had got like that.

This was going to be a problem, he could tell. He'd probably need therapy. Was post-pleasure stress disorder a thing? Favs leaned down to kiss the corner of Lovett's mouth, lingering, because he was a creation of the sex gods sent to torment mankind for its sins, but chaste, because their learning transaction had been concluded and now they were ready to go back to being friends. And perhaps because his psychic sex powers communicated to him how bad Lovett's mouth tasted right now, bitter with regret, dehydration and grain alcohol.

Favs pulled back and graced Lovett with another beatific smile, signalling that it was Lovett's turn to contribute to making this non-awkward and relaxed. He thought longingly of his toothbrush script.

"That's me," he said, in lieu of it, "your friendly local sexuality crisis resolver! The hot man’s starter bang!" His tone didn’t quite reflect how chill and cheery he absolutely was, or was going to start being any moment now, about this whole situation. He decided to cut himself some slack. The sheets had slipped down Favs' torso, and that looked even better sober than it did three-plus sheets to the wind. No one could be expected to remain calm at the idea of walking away from it.

Tearing his eyes away to safer ground, he looked at his surroundings. He appeared to be in Favs' apartment. At least, he didn't recognise it, and there was a lot of taupe, so it seemed likely. That meant it was his job to do grown up things, like stand up and go home, so they could get on with their lives. Lovett rolled off the bed and onto his feet. He managed to stay on them while his brain and stomach executed their own slow 360 degree roll in response, but it was a close fought thing.

“Well,” he said, when his organs had slotted themselves uneasily back into their usual spots, “it’s been great, but I should be off”. With the skill of a top soccer player—perhaps with greater skill, considering they didn’t have to play under these conditions—Lovett kicked his underwear over to his pants, so he only had to bend down once to pick them up. He turned back to Favs to see if he was impressed by his feat, but he was frowning slightly. His hangover was probably kicking in, or maybe he was waiting for Lovett to get going. Which he was, in fairness, trying to do. It wasn't Lovett’s fault that his clothes had been flung about with careless abandon last night by Favs himself, so that he couldn’t find his shirt on the floor anywhere. Lovett forced his uncooperative limbs into his lower layers, and cast his eyes higher, grateful when they alighted on a grey Henley hanging on the corner of Favs' bureau, and he was able to fully reclothe his vulnerable naked body.

“You don’t have to go,” said Favs, unconvincingly.

“I’ve gotta get back and give Pundit her breakfast,” Lovett replied, adding, when Favs didn’t reply, “I’ll see you around.”

He backed out with an awkward wave.

*

Pundit was rightfully a bit put out when he got home and, as an act of penance, Lovett forwent the shower that every fibre of his body longed for, chugged a couple of glasses of water while she ate breakfast, and took her straight out to the park. There, he collapsed onto the first bench he could, all set to sit there for as long as she wanted to run about, well occupied by cradling his aching head in his hands and rueing his poor choices. Because he was a glutton for punishment, he slid his phone out of his pocket, and flicked to Tommy's last text. The reply box looked back at him, blank and accusatory.

So he might have sat all morning, if a hand bearing coffee, a hand attached to one Jonathan Favreau, hadn’t appeared in his field of vision.

“Thank you,” said Lovett, gratefully accepting the cup. It wasn’t his preferred morning-after-the-night-before Diet Coke, but it was caffeinated. Across from where he sat, Pundit greeted Leo with her usual enthusiasm, and they both rolled over in a ball of golden fur and wagging tails. God, his dog had no chill. He could relate to the desire to greet a Favreau that way, but he could also control himself. Favs was sitting down next to him and Lovett wasn’t pressing his aching head into his neck as he distinctly wanted to do. Because of dignity.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” said Favs. “You're right, pining after straight people is a bad idea.” Lovett turned his head to look at him, but he was making intense eye contact with his coffee. "Um, but there's a person who's not straight that I maybe like.”

Somehow, Lovett didn’t groan out loud. You give a person advice on their sexuality crisis once, and suddenly they can't make their own basic life decisions. Lovett wanted to be supportive, he really did, but he was in a fragile state. “I really feel like my part is done here”. He concentrated on sounding casual and non-bitter. “Go find whatever one of your two guys you’re talking about and trust me, if they are even one percent open to you romantically, they will fall at your feet and-”

“Oh my god, it's obviously you!” interrupted Favs, loudly. "You are so annoying."

Lovett blinked at him. “What?”

“I like _you_ , you idiot.” Favs glared at him, but the corner of his mouth was definitely trying to break free into a smile.

“You like me. You mean...” Lovett started to trail off, but forced himself to use the dangerous, presumptuous word, “romantically?”

“We literally just had sex. Of course I mean romantically.”

“Oh.” Lovett tried to sort through this new world order, with limited success. “Okay. Um, thanks?”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Favs took a big sip of his coffee. Lovett stared at the long column of Favs' throat as he swallowed.

“If you’re being this obtuse because you’re not interested,” said Favs eventually, “then can you say so? I mean, you seemed into it last night, but then you left this morning, and I know I'm all inexperienced and…”

“No!” said Lovett, suddenly realising he was royally fucking this up. “I mean, yes. I mean, I like you too. Like, a lot.”

Favs beamed at him, disproportionately enthused by this news. “So how about dinner tonight? I know a place that does burgers that are just the thing for a hangover.”

Tommy's text still sat unanswered in his hand. But an equally smart, equally handsome, equally appreciative of his sense of humour man sat beside him. And this one had taken a thorough, biblical look at what he—short, semi-employed disaster human with little direction and variable hair, Jon Lovett—had to offer and liked him. This wasn’t even one bird in the hand and two in the bush. It was one metaphorical bird either way.

“Yes,” said Lovett, “it’s a date.”

“Great,” Favs stood and called Leo over, “I’ll text you the details. I need to lie in a dark room for a couple of hours before I can make any plans.”

Lovett slid his phone back into his pocket, and watched as Favs ambled out of the park, his leering miraculously sanctioned by mutual romantic interest. Yes, this felt completely right. Well, he had no regrets. Or rather, this particular decision did truly feel right, and he had some minor, semi-related regrets about the path not taken. But what was life but the slow winnowing away of your choices and opportunities? You couldn't have it all. And if what you got was a chance to look into Favs' face and touch him and talk to him whenever you wanted, you were doing incredibly well. Staggeringly well.

*

Their date started off on the right foot, when Favs greeted Lovett with a big smile and an actual on the lips, hint of tongue kiss, even though they were outside what was clearly one of his regular haunts. That went a long way to soothing the trepidation Lovett had built up over the afternoon at getting involved with yet another nominally straight guy.

Once they sat down, it got even better. It wasn’t as if they had ever struggled for things to say, but it was as if admitting their non-platonic feelings unlocked some hidden, bonus level of conversation. Not only because Favs continued to be an absolutely fantastic audience. That had been true before he expressed his appreciation by touching Lovett, reaching out mid laugh to clutch Lovett's arm, as if he might float away if he didn’t, or pressing a knee against Lovett’s under the table. More than that somewhat self-involved reason, Lovett liked himself more with Favs. Something about his open, smiling face made Lovett want to reciprocate, to look past the easy, sarcastic comment and live up to Favs' inexplicable faith in him as a good person. Made him feel as if maybe he didn’t need to protect himself from whatever the hell it was he was normally protecting himself from. It was a ridiculously large amount to read into a first date, even a first date with someone you knew, who you’d projected romantic feelings onto for months and also had sex with, but that’s where Lovett was as they meandered from the restaurant, giddy with laughter and the possibilities that the rest of the night, and the days after that, might yet still hold.

"Jon," said someone, startled, and Lovett wrested his attention away from the romantic hero nonsense going on next to him to find Tommy Vietor standing in front of them.

The shock of seeing him in the flesh was a full body experience. Lovett felt like he'd walked straight into an invisible brick wall, the numb sting of the impact ringing across his body. His heart pounded in preparation for flight or fight, drowning out all other noises, and he swore his fucking vision sharpened. Somehow, Tommy looked even better in person than he had in photographs, hair softer, an over-washed t-shirt on instead of a suit. The glow that Lovett had attributed to photoshop and make-up artists was apparently his skin.

With neither fight nor flight an option, Lovett was frozen: guilty, terrified, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. His first, crazed thought was that Tommy had tracked him down to, god, to fight Favs for him, an idea so ridiculous he nearly laughed out loud as he had it. Or maybe he'd come to shout at Lovett, and warn Favs that he was on a date with a faithless liar who strung people along, never texted them back—even though he'd promised he would—and then had sex with other people. That momentarily seemed completely plausible.

He'd spiralled through several such nightmare scenarios, and almost decided on the route he'd be run out of town on, when he realised that Tommy hadn't really looked at him, not beyond a brief, dismissive glance to take in the fact that another person was there. He was talking to Favs, and Favs was talking back. Like they knew each other. Which they clearly did.

The paranoid, self-doubting part of Lovett—the part that still remembered how he'd felt when the lid of a blue recycling bin had closed above him, and he'd been stuck in the dark with nothing but the dank smell of other people's rubbish and the growing sense that his presence there might symbolic of something real—went straight to some kind of bizarre, bro conspiracy to mock him. But this wasn't middle school, it wasn’t even high school, and the rest of his brain was finally recovering from its shock and taking control back from his worst fears and insecurities.

Favs had been holding Lovett’s hand, sort of as a joke as Lovett protested ineffectively, but he'd dropped it when Tommy appeared. Now, his free hand was wrapped around his own upper arm, forearm across his torso, a gesture Lovett had seen him make countless times over their friendship, but not, he realised, today. Today, he'd reached out to Lovett, open and expansive, drawing Lovett closer. It had felt so natural he'd barely registered it, until he saw it contrasted with Favs talking to Tommy, back in that same stance. Was it a self-protective measure, or was he afraid he might reach out to Tommy the way he'd been reaching out to Lovett? Was that why Favs had been doing it before?

The idea came to Lovett all at once, fully formed. The conclusion there even before he'd drawn all the lines between the information he had; a conclusion that only became more certain with every connection he made. A paradigm shift, forcing him to look at everything from a new perspective. They'd all had someone else, hadn't they? Their own personal love triangle.

Lovett had been torn between the voice without a face on the other end of the phone that challenged him and made him better, and the face he'd admired from a distance for months, that had turned out to be an appropriately dazzling cover for the book within.

Tommy had been ringing Lovett up to try and understand the feelings he had for his best friend, and got distracted along the way by a fantasy that Lovett had concocted.

Favs had been drowning his sorrow at realising his friend was a missed opportunity with a new love interest, not a non-opportunity he'd never had a chance with, and his confusion over having the second crush of his life on another man.

That man had, against all odds, turned out to be Lovett, whittling the six guys down to five. It seemed barely more preposterous, looking at Favs shielding himself from Tommy, familiar but awkward, to theorise that Favs' lost opportunity might be Tommy, and that Tommy's straight best friend might be Favs. _We worked for the same person_ , Tommy had said, which was a weird way to say you worked with someone unless you'd nearly said _for the President_. Right. Of course they fucking knew each other, two handsome successful people who had once worked in politics. The wonder was that either of them knew Lovett.

It _was_ preposterous, a series of coincidences that shouldn't exist outside the pages of a trite romcom script, but it also made perfect sense. Of course Tommy had fallen for Lovett's made up persona, he'd unknowingly been picturing the person Tommy had been pining after half the time. Of course Tommy hadn't realised Favs wasn't straight, Favs hadn't fully admitted it to anyone until last night in the bar. Lovett himself, he realised, detonating another minor bombshell, less foundation shaking than the last but still devastating, was probably the _third fucking guy_ that Favs' friend, that Tommy liked. The one he'd talked to Favs about, that had sent him to the bar confused and frustrated. The one that didn't actually exist outside of his and Tommy's night time conversations. It even seemed to lend some credence to Favs' feelings for Lovett, as if Lovett's connection with Tommy had imparted some transitive quality that he'd latched on to, their connection strong enough that it reached past clueless middle-men to sense destiny on the other side.

And of course it made sense that this wasn't Lovett's love story. He'd known—he _had_ —all along, that that was absurd. He was no literary heroine with two Prince Charmings to choose between. He was an incidental character, bringing them together.

He hadn't even started to think about how he was going to handle this minefield of a social interaction when miraculously, it was over without him having to do anything, without him even taking in anything either of them had said. Tommy brushed past them and continued walking down the street. They both turned to watch him stride away, tall and comically upright. It was Favs who turned back first, giving Lovett an uneasy smile and resuming their walk. The conversation could not be picked back up so easily though: the mood broken, Lovett's mind a whirl of his new reality, Favs quiet.

“Fuck,” said Favs, stopping suddenly. Panic tightened Lovett's throat. Had he figured it out too? "I'm sorry, I completely ignored you in that conversation, didn't I?" The rush of relief was so intense, Lovett couldn't speak for a moment, and Favs took his silence as confirmation. "I swear, it's nothing to do with you," he continued, achingly sincere. "It's. Well. He's an old friend, and he's kind of pissed at me. The last time we talked he told me something personal, and I didn't react very well, and-"

"That was-" interrupted Lovett, too loudly. He cut himself off, and tried to modulate his tone, a calm casual person asking their date a normal no-big-deal question. "Was that your friend you were talking about yesterday? The one you had feelings for?"

"Yeah," said Favs, with an embarrassed laugh. "God, is it that obvious?"

"Only if you have all the information," replied Lovett, faintly, still assimilating. "How did you meet?"

“We were on Obama's campaign together, and we worked at the White House," said Favs, a final death knell for any ember of hope that Lovett had. "But that's not why I didn’t say anything. I mean, he’s seeing someone else. And this isn't a secret date. And I would totally introduce you to any of my friends." Favs' eyes were big and earnest, focused on trying to explain a situation he only thought he understood. "It's only that I really owe him a proper apology, and it probably would have been super awkward for you if we had that conversation right now. I've already unloaded a whole truck of my bullshit about it onto you."

"Don't worry about it." Lovett plastered on a decent facsimile of a smile. No matter how you looked at this fucked up situation, it wasn't Favs' fault.

Perhaps he wasn't that convincing, because Favs leaned in close, a frown of concern on his face, and asked, "Are you sure?"

He was insanely handsome and good, and should only have good things. That made it a bit easier to reassure him, to say, “Very sure" once more, with a bit more feeling.

They were approaching Lovett's apartment. Before they'd run into Tommy, Lovett had most definitely been planning on an even more earth-shaking, sober repeat of last night, with a complete do-over of a morning after. But last night they had both been innocent and ignorant as new born babes. Now Lovett was engaged in active deception.

If he was trying this case, he knew what he'd ask. He imagined pacing before himself in the stand. 'And at what point, Mr Lovett,' he asked himself, face set and serious, 'did you become aware of the... misunderstanding that your relationship was built on? Was it before, or after, you coerced him into your bed?'

"I feel sick," said Lovett, abruptly. "From last night, it's hitting me all over again." The little frown of concern appeared on Favs' face again, a cloud in what should always be a blue blue sky. "And this is me," he gestured at his building, "so I think I'm gonna turn in." He took a few steps away from Favs, who looked forlorn.

"Of course," Favs said, not making a move to leave. "I hope you feel better." Lovett took another couple of steps away.

When Favs gave a sad little wave, an awkward wriggle of the long, gorgeous fingers that Lovett had barely got the chance to know, Lovett's will broke momentarily, and he went back over to tug him down into a proper goodbye kiss, rich with all the tongue that Favs deserved, from someone, if not from Lovett. Lovett would have to do for now.

"I'll see you soon," he said, and hurried into his building before he could change his mind.

*

Upstairs, Lovett paced. He paced, he moped, he flicked back through a particularly egregious profile of Tommy, where he was pictured sitting in a leather office chair, the view from a skyscraper's plate glass window as a backdrop, like an uncomfortably hot villain in a superhero movie, and then he moped some more.

The trouble was, he knew what he had to do. But he didn't want to do it. What an idiot he'd been, thinking he was the story when he was the catalyst, triggering change in others, bringing them together to form something new, and exiting the reaction unchanged himself.

Before he could overthink it and risk chickening out, Lovett got his phone out and messaged Tommy _How about tomorrow evening?_. Tommy's agreement popped up almost at once, along with a suggestion of the exact bar that Favs had just taken him to, as if this hadn’t got weirdly incestuous enough already.

 _I was starting to think you’d changed your mind_ Tommy sent, a moment later.

 _Sorry, crazy twenty four hours_ he replied, _I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow_.

After more than a day of avoiding talking to Tommy, Lovett suddenly ached to tell him everything. _My name is Jon, by the way, I don't think I told you that yet_ he settled for. It was a selfish and pointless nugget of honesty, but maybe for one night he could know that Tommy was thinking about him almost as he was in reality.

 _Good night Jon_ , Tommy sent back _I'll see you tomorrow._

It was only after he'd sent _Good night_ in response that Lovett remembered that that was Favs' name too, and that all he had probably succeeded in doing was reminding Tommy of his first choice. It took Lovett a long time to fall asleep.

*

The next evening, Lovett headed to the bar Tommy had suggested. Favs was already there, as Lovett had arranged, happy to see him, even though he looked a fright. A night and day of rationally and calmly thinking through his options and moral responsibilities and what would lead to the greatest net happiness in the world—spoiler alert, not the few weeks or months or however long he could keep this up before Favs realised that Lovett was not worth his soft little smiles, that someone better and more successful, who he already loved, was into him, and that Lovett had heartlessly sacrificed Favs' long term True Love for his own short term happiness—had left him too tired and miserable to do much more than put on a fresh t-shirt, let alone his contact lenses. At least this way he could take his glasses off if their two faces got too much for him, and let biology blur the details of how sickeningly handsome and out of his league and happy they were. He didn't need that in his life.

He had barely sat down opposite Favs, wondering how you made conversation before your own metaphorical execution, when Tommy appeared in the doorway, outlined by the setting golden sun like he was entering the denouement of a romance film. Which he was, if you thought about it. A story of missed connections and opportunities and how a scene-stealing supporting character finally brought together the two youthful sweethearts who should have been. Critics would probably speculate that Lovett was meant to be cupid or like, a leprechaun, if that was what leprechauns did. A mischievous supernatural being righting life's romantic injustices. It wasn't a bad idea actually. Maybe Lovett's reward from all this would be a movie deal, instead of him being expected to act out of pure love of Love, or whatever this was.

The moment of truth was approaching rapidly. Favs had had his back to the door, but he turned when Lovett waved Tommy over, and Lovett saw the start of recognition on Tommy's face. He swallowed past the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and stood, ignoring Favs' quizzical look until Tommy got closer.

"So, here's the deal," he said, before either of them could formulate a formal question. Tommy took a sharp breath when Lovett spoke, but Lovett didn't look over at his face. He couldn't. He didn't want to see whatever realisation looked like. Disappointment would be as devastating as the lack of it. Instead, he plunged on, racing past the moment, mustering all the false bravado he could. Despite years of training in false bravado, it was hard. Favs was standing now too, the three of them a tight, awkward cluster in the narrow space between tables. Two tall sets of muscular arms and sharp jaw lines trying not touch each other, looming over the odd one out, who couldn't remember what the hell he normally did with his hands.

"For reasons I don't really want to get into, but trust me when I say it's a dizzying series of unlikely coincidences and not some kind of dastardly plan, you've both been telling me about how you've been in love with each other since you met." Favs' eyes darted, panicked and betrayed, over to Tommy's face, which had gone blank. Lovett had to look down, away from them. "Neither of you are straight. Both of you like each other. You're mad about each other. I-" Lovett's voice stalled. He took a deep breath and tried to reboot. "I swear, I didn't put it all together until yesterday but-" he'd been wringing his hands together like an overwrought character in a novel, but that wasn't the vibe, so he clapped them together instead. Brisk. Business like. Wrapping things up. "Anyway, you've been lucky enough to be brought together by renowned gay crisis resolver Jon Lovett. Or gay crisis worsener, I'm not really sure." Unsurprisingly, no one laughed.

He hadn't planned anything else to say, which turned out to be a perfectly fine plan, because when he wrestled his eyes back up from the floor, Favs and Tommy were busy looking at each other.

"Really?" asked Favs, tremulously.

Tommy didn't look blank anymore; he looked appropriately overcome, face flushed and soft looking. He nodded.

"How long?"

"Always." Tommy's voice cracked, vulnerable, like the night he'd asked Lovett how he knew he was gay. This intimacy wasn't for Lovett though. It never should have been. Favs reached a hand out towards Tommy, placed it on his arm, body angling towards him, and Lovett knew he'd outstayed his cue.

"...and I'll leave you both to your happy ending now." They were standing too close together for Lovett to get past, so he backed away and went round the table next to them, being very careful not to knock anything over. He could only handle so many romcom clichés.

*

Slowly, Lovett meandered back to his apartment on foot. He felt dazed, and if he let go of that feeling there was a high probability he'd cry in the street like a crazy person, which was ridiculous. He managed quite successfully to keep his mind blank and let homing instinct guide him back to his front door.

Pundit came running out to meet him, blessedly, uncomplicatedly, truly happy that he was there, as she always was. Lovett scooped her up, beyond grateful for the warm, wriggling weight of her, and pressed his cheek into her springy fur. She flopped her head over his shoulder in response, which was almost as good as a hug. Lovett loved his dog. He didn't need people.

"Ours is a high and lonely destiny," he said to her, since there was no one else for him to say it to.

She yawned, which made Lovett laugh, which then made him cry a little. He didn't escalate to full on sobs, but only because somebody rang his doorbell and interrupted his emotional catharsis. For fuck's sake, he couldn't even have a moment with his dog.

"Hello?" he said into the intercom.

"Can we come up?" Tommy's voice said back.

Instinctively, Lovett released the button and stepped back. Heart beating fast, he looked round for a non-existent escape route. Pundit squirmed against his slightly too firm hold until he set her down. She scampered away, leaving him defenceless.

He wouldn't let them up. He couldn't imagine what they could possibly be here to do except to yell at him about lying—even though that had been for less than twenty four hours!—or grill him for details of his entirely accidental deception, both of which he would happily take a pass on. His bell rang again, but he didn't move. They'd give up and go away. They knew where he worked, and where he lived, which might be a problem, but surely they couldn't be angry enough to do more than hang about for ten minutes? They had each other to console them. Years of athletic sex they'd missed out on. They should have better things to do than berate their gift horse in the mouth.

A neighbour's footsteps heading down the stairs didn't register as a snag in his otherwise fool proof plan to wait out their libidos until it was too late. The sound of the front door opening and then closing—several seconds later, too long for a rightful resident letting it fall shut behind them without incident—rang out like a death knell. Lovett pressed his face to the peephole, eye straining to see down the stairs. Inevitably, two familiar, handsome faces mounted them. Lovett pulled back, and leaned against the door. When would this be over?

Next to his head, someone knocked.

"Lovett?" said Favs. He didn't sound angry, but that could be a front to trick him into opening the door.

"If you two can't take it from here, I can't help you," Lovett said. "Go google gay porn and I'm sure you'll be fine."

"We don't need sex tips." Even through a door, Tommy sounded huffy at the suggestion which, good. Maybe he'd storm off and leave Lovett alone.

"You left in the middle of our date," said Favs, as if Lovett hadn't as good as told him to get lost.

"And we never even got to start ours." Now Tommy sounded fucking amused.

Lovett yanked the door open. "Those weren't dates, they were ruses. Ruses to get you to your happy ending, which you can now go and enjoy in private, where I don't have to see it, like I am planning to enjoy a relaxing evening in the company of my PS4 and my dog, which is my preference anyway."

Summoned by the commotion, Pundit appeared, and Tommy's face fell into the ridiculous expression that some people got around dogs. He crouched and held a hand out to her and Pundit, despite the fact she had never met this damn man in her whole life, trotted right up to him, tail wagging. Tommy grinned up at Lovett as if this was some kind of accomplishment, instead of a gallingly cute imposition. He looked different when he smiled. Less like an unapproachable corporate cyborg, and more like a mischievous schoolboy with laugh lines. It was unfair that Lovett had to see that. It was none of his business if Tommy was all soft with his dog. "Save it for Leo," Lovett said.

"If you really want us to go, we will, of course," said Favs. He at least looked appropriately serious, but he still didn’t seem angry. Neither of them did.

Lovett stared at him. The long sleepless night and the confusion and uncertainty of this whole damn thing settled on him. He felt exhausted. "I don't understand why you're here."

"Can we come in?" asked Favs, instead of answering. Too weary to protest anymore, Lovett stepped back from the door and let them in. It closed behind them with an ominous clunk.

Defensively, Lovett crossed his arms, and waited for whatever the hell they had to say.

"As you apparently know all too well," started Favs, with a sidelong glance at Tommy, "neither of us know what the hell we're doing, relationship wise." Lovett snorted, which was probably rich coming from him, but in this case he felt entitled. "But we do both know that we still want to date you," Favs continued. Then he stopped talking, an expectant look on his face. Lovett didn’t know what to do.

"Are you asking me to—" Lovett paused, hoping one of them would spring in to clarify, but neither of them did, “—choose between you?" He may not know what the fuck was going on, but he did know that he absolutely did not want to do that. His chest felt tight with panic at the thought of it. He wouldn't even know where to begin. Or what would happen afterwards. At this point, he'd rather be forever fucking alone.

"No," said Tommy, "more like date us both."

"We all date each other!" Favs smiled his biggest smile, apparently unconcerned by the unusual, precarious, emotional minefield of an arrangement he was suggesting. "It seemed like the obvious solution."

Which, it kind of did. Except for logistics and society and the unfair balance of history between them, and about fifty other things that Lovett couldn't think of right then, but he was sure existed. Everything may have gone right in Favs' life, but that didn't mean it always worked out for the rest of them. "Is it?" he asked.

"You know," said Tommy, thoughtfully, "I thought you'd be less conventional. You always sounded so modern and self-actualised on the phone, like you had your shit together and would be open to non-standard relationships.”

"I did not," replied Lovett, stung. Though that wasn't quite right. "I mean, obviously, I am. I know about polyamory and am very open minded. But I'm not sure that Mr and Mr Decades of Repressed Gay Passion can handle it. That shit is complicated."

"Decades?" said Favs, incredulous and missing the point. "We're barely older than you."

"At least he's not accusing me of being underage anymore." Tommy caught Lovett's eye, even as he conspired with Favs against him, and Lovett smiled, despite himself. It had only been a few seconds, and he'd been under emotional assault for most of them, but he liked this: the dynamic, the three of them.

"It's not that I don't think it's a good idea." It was a solution so good that Lovett hadn't even thought of it. Twice as many birds as he thought he could get. Two kinds of cake to eat. Or one to have and one to eat. Lovett had never thought that saying through, but this probably wasn't the time to get into it. The point was, it sounded fantastic, as long as everyone knew what they were getting into.

"Are you sure?" Lovett's voice came out higher than he intended, but that could happen when you were on the edge of tears.

"Yes," said Tommy, firmly.

"But is that really-" Tommy stepped towards him, face intent, and Lovett lost his train of thought slightly. "I mean," he stumbled on, as Tommy got closer, "you two have known each other for so long, and I'm-"

Tommy reached up and gently removed Lovett's glasses, which was A Move, and handed them to Favs. He put a hand on either side of Lovett's face, a thumb stroking along each cheek, and leaned down, slowly, so that Lovett felt every microsecond before their lips made contact. Before he kissed him.

"Yes," Tommy said again, when he was done.

"Okay," said Lovett faintly, pulling Tommy back down. Both Tommy's hands were still on his face, but he felt another hand touch tentatively at his shoulder, and he reached out blindly to pull Favs in closer. When he and Tommy separated, they found Favs watching them, a very sappy look on his face.

If Lovett had had any hopes that Tommy would be a bulwark against the manipulative power of Favs' big brown eyes, they died when Tommy returned his sappy look and pulled him in for a kiss. A kiss which Lovett got a very up front and personal seat to. Oh yeah, this was definitely something Lovett could get on board with. He could hear the noises that their lips made, wet and intimate. It turned out that he didn't hate all of other people's sex sounds.

"This is a Good Plan," he informed them, when the show paused briefly. Then, "We don't have to actually go on a date before we have sex do we?"

"Definitely not," said Tommy, and Lovett pulled them both towards the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/persuna), tagging at length.


End file.
